CHILDREN  OF  FATE 


"  'He  put  his  shoulder  to  the  figure  of   Christ  and 
pushed... I  saw  it  topple  and  crash  down.'  " — Page  157 


CHILDREN 
OF   FATE 


BY 


MARICE  RUTLEDGE 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
J.  HENRY 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


TO 

THE  WISER  WOMEN  OF  ALL  COUNTRIES — 

FORE-RUNNERS  OF  UNIVERSAL 

PEACE 


2138105 


CHILDREN  OF  FATE 


JEAN1  BOURDON,  the  father,  folded 
his  napkin  and  rose  slowly  from  the 
round  table.  Obeying  his  signal,  the 
family  shifted  in  their  places,  hesitant,  as 
if  reluctant  to  break  the  circle.  And  in 
the  big  dining  room,  where  the  furniture 
seemed  to  have  sprouted  from  the  floor  in 
massive  familiar  shapes,  these  men  and  women 
of  several  generations  fitted  into  the  space  like 
plants  that  have  grown  in  the  same  climate  for 
years. 

The  air  was  charged  with  the  heat  of  midday, 
mingled  with  reminiscent  odors.  The  table 
was  covered  with  the  remains  of  a  plentiful 
meal.  But  there  was  never  any  waste  in  the 
Bourdon  family.  Such  as  was  left  of  wine, 


2  CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

cheese  and  fruit  had  the  conservative  look  of 
provisions  still  to  be  reckoned  with.  And 
Grandmother  Bourdon's  bottle  of  tonic  stood 
guard  over  an  untouched  chunk  of  bread,  as  if 
assuring  the  company  that,  in  this  household, 
bread  was  respected. 

"Come,  .  .  .  come,  my  children,"  said  Jean 
Bourdon  in  a  loud  reassuring  voice.  "They 
will  see  this  time  what  good  Frenchmen  can 
do!  Ah,  my  friends,  what  they  will  get  .  .  .  !" 
The  accompanying  gesture  was  significant. 

He  was  a  plump  little  man,  shaped  like  a 
bell.  His  voice  boomed  above  the  murmur  of 
resumed  conversation.  "We  will  see  that !"  and 
he  brought  his  hand  down  with  a  jovial  slap 
on  the  shoulder  of  his  eldest  son.  "Eh,  Ray- 
mond?" 

The  women  flocked  ahead,  Grandmother 
Bourdon  leading  the  way.  She  was  very  old. 
She  looked  like  a  wizened  leaf,  held  to  the  ro- 
bust tree  by  a  thin  sappy  thread.  She  walked 
leaning  on  a  cane,  and  she  blocked  the  door  for 
a  measurable  time,  wavering  on  the  threshold, 


CHILDREN   OF,  FATE          3 

her  head  with  its  black-beaded  cap  nodding  the 
uneven  rhythms  of  age. 

Her  daughter-in-law,  next  in  place,  offered 
an  arm.  But  the  old  lady  refused  any  help. 

"Leave  me,  .  .  .  leave  me,"  she  quavered, 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "I  am  still  val- 
iant." 

Jean  Bourdon,  surrounded  by  his  sons  and 
relatives,  moved  solidly  through  the  door.  The 
faces  of  the  men,  with  the  exception  of  Pierre, 
the  youngest  son,  were  flushed  and  damp.  Jean 
Bourdon's  round  face  emerged  from  a  bushy 
growth  of  mustache  and  beard  like  an  over- 
ripe fruit.  He  wore  with  authority  a  red  rib- 
bon in  his  buttonhole. 

There  was  about  the  men  a  mobile  bluster 
that  blew  over  the  surface  of  their  reunion  like 
a  fitful  wind.  Beneath  their  assurance  ran 
currents  of  uneasiness  and  anguish  that  linked 
them  tacitly.  They  dominated  the  women,  as 
if  called  upon  by  their  rank  as  the  male  mem- 
bers of  the  family  to  assert  sufficiency  under 
present  conditions.  Struck  at  the  heart  of 


4          CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

their  cult  for  home  and  country,  they  reacted 
with  the  instant  combativeness  of  democratic 
citizens. 

Jean  Bourdon  represented  industry. 

He  owned  a  brick  factory  in  Paris  and  two 
others  in  the  North.  He  called  the  great  ovens 
in  which  the  reddish  brown  bricks  were  baked 
"The  Light  of  the  Hearth."  For  on  these 
bricks  he  had  based  his  social  status,  the  fu- 
ture of  his  sons,  the  security  of  his  ripening 
years.  Bricks  were  the  symbols  of  society,  the 
stauncli  bodies  with  which  were  constructed 
communities.  They  were  earth  utilized  as  a 
protection.  They  were  solid  and  stable  and 
honest.  He  believed  in  them  as  he  believed 
in  the  traditions  that  had  built  up  past  and 
future  generations. 

In  the  midst  of  his  prosperity  the  war  had 
exploded,  demolishing  the  structure  of  years. 
His  factories  in  the  North  were  in  danger. 
Most  of  the  men  were  called.  Orders  would 
be  countermanded,  business  halted. 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE          5 

And  he  was  one  of  many.  Now  that  France 
was  menaced  by  invasion,  and  the  core  of  na- 
tional pride  emperiled,  the  people  had  risen  as 
one  host  to  defend  what  was  most  precious  to 
them:  their  homes.  All  other  considerations 
must  be  laid  aside,  all  personal  opinions  sacri- 
ficed, all  material  consequences  endured. 

Raymond  Bourdon,  the  oldest  son  and  part- 
ner, was  a  stalwart  florid  man,  who  wore  his 
opinions  like  his  expensive  rings,  well  in  evi- 
dence. He  was  his  father  amplified,  accentu- 
ated, with  the  wit,  the  prejudices,  the  caution 
and  the  generosity  of  his  race.  He  was  adored 
by  those  upon  whom  he  imposed  his  will.  His 
abundant  vitality  found  vent  in  the  present 
situation.  He  roared  his  challenge  and  con- 
tempt of  the  enemy. 

Planted  in  the  middle  of  an  attentive  circle, 
he  bellowed  his  views. 

"It  was  time !  A  year  ago  I  could  have  told 
you  what  we  were  laying  up  for  ourselves. 
We've  been  fools,  my  friends.  .  .  .  We 


6          CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

French  are  really  too  naive!  What  .  .  .  ! 
They  infested  the  country  like  rats,  nibbling 
at  our  commerce.  They  stole  our  credit.  They 
grabbed  our  business,  our  art,  our  money  .  .  . 
and  we  sat  like  a  crowd  of  imbeciles,  seeing 
nothing.  When  shall  we  learn  that  foreigners 
undermine  a  country?  A  fine  lesson  we'll  have 
now.  I,  for  one,  am  enchanted!  I'll  crunch 
one  or  two  of  them  with  pleasure.  .  .  .  Then 
perhaps  we'll  have  peace." 

His  wife  looked  up  at  him  with  admiration. 
The  loose  coat  she  wore  did  not  hide  a  promis- 
ing contour.  She  was  paying  her  toll  to 
France  for  the  fourth  time. 

"Eh,  it  is  not  such  a  bad  thing,"  remarked 
Jean  Bourdon,  tugging  at  his  mustache.  "The 
socialists  and  their  agitations  announced  noth- 
ing good  to  me.  We  should  have  had  trouble 
with  them  and  their  eight-hour  laws.  Work- 
men are  not  what  they  used  to  be.  ...  This 
will  give  them  something  to  do,  and  to  think 
about." 

Doctor  Lejeune,  Madame  Bourdon's  cous- 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE          7 

in,  shrugged  his  pointed  shoulders,  and  mut- 
tered wisely,  "A  party  postponed." 

"Pooh!"  snorted  Raymond,  snapping  his 
fingers.  "Let  them  leave  us  alone." 

The  Bourdons  were  assembled  in  the  salon, 
which  was  used  only  on  formal  occasions.  It 
was  a  big  light  room  encumbered  with  furni- 
ture and  ornaments.  There  were  collected  the 
most  valuable  household  gods  in  profusion 
and  diversity,  dating  the  family  history. 
Where  they  had  been  placed  in  the  beginning, 
there  they  stayed,  with  the  rigidity  of  petrifac- 
tion. 

Most  of  the  furniture  Jean  Bourdon  had 
bought  at  an  exhibition  of  modern  interior 
decoration.  He  was  proud  of  it  as  an  expres- 
sion of  his  progressive  views.  It  clashed  with 
the  other  objects  in  the  room  by  its  tendencies 
to  outrage  all  the  established  lines  of  comfort 
and  symmetry.  Made  of  light  wood  and  en- 
crusted in  pretentious  colored  designs,  the 
chairs  and  sofa  undulated  in  exasperated 


8          CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

curves  and  patterns.  Mingling  with  this  ex- 
pensive set,  in  unfriendly  dignity,  were  plush 
chairs  backed  with  lace,  Grandmother  Bour- 
don's armchair,  and  a  crop  of  embroidered 
stools.  The  piano  was  forever  closed  and 
smothered  beneath  a  piece  of  tapestry  made 
by  Madame  Jean  Bourdon  when  she  was  a 
girl.  Two  ponderous  Japanese  vases  crammed 
with  artificial  leaves  flanked  a  collection  of 
photographs.  China  animals  and  china  chil- 
dren congregated  on  a  small  gilt  table.  In  a 
solemn  looking  cabinet  were  gathered  precious 
relics  of  the  family — a  fan,  a  locket,  a  string 
of  Venetian  beads,  a  snuff-box  that  had  de- 
scended from  Jean  Bourdon's  father,  a  jade 
bottle  and  an  Oriental  box. 

The  old  grandmother  settled  in  her  arm- 
chair, her  cane  resting  against  her  knees.  Her 
hands  and  lips  moved  incessantly,  as  if  by 
puerile  movements  she  kept  an  illusion  of  life. 
The  others  clustered  around  her  in  protective 
attitudes.  Now  and  then  one  of  them  would 
bend  forward  and  shout: 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE  9 

"What  did  you  say,  Mother?" 

"Eh  ...  eh  ...  yes,"  she  would  croak, 
blinking  her  filmy  eyes. 

The  talk  would  mount  again,  covering  her 
mumbling.  Then  she  would  peer  out  in  an 
anxious  cunning  way,  a  hand  behind  her  ears 
in  order  to  hear  better. 

"Eh,  the  miserable  ones.  ...  I  remember 
in  '70  .  .  ." 

Pierre,  the  youngest  son,  wandered  to  the 
window  as  if  to  efface  himself  from  the  group. 
He  seemed  of  another  breed.  A  gentle  air 
of  abstraction  misted  his  pale  face,  set  it  apart 
in  an  atmosphere  of  dreams.  He  looked  like 
some  ascetic  apostle,  stepped  from  a  primitive 
painting.  He  had  not  spoken  during  the  meal. 
His  pale  blue  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  his  plate 
as  if  he  saw  there  visions  that  removed  him 
from  actuality.  No  one  noticed  him. 

But  presently  Lorraine,  his  aunt,  joined 
him,  and  they  two  stood  close  together  like 
strangers  inadvertently  admitted  to  a  family 


10        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

council.  Pierre  slipped  a  hand  in  her  arm, 
linking  them. 

"Poor  little  Pierre,"  she  whispered. 

Her  young  blonde  face  shone  up  at  him  wist- 
fully. She  smoothed  his  hand  with  her  thin 
fingers,  one  of  which  carried  a  golden  band. 
She  was  the  widow  of  Raoul,  Jean's  brother. 
She  moved  among  this  family  as  if  she  did  not 
belong  to  them.  Her  face  had  the  look  of 
early  spring  with  lingering  frosts  and  a  sweet- 
ness that  was  delayed.  But  when  she  smiled 
at  Pierre,  it  was  as  if  the  sun  had  thawed  the 
last  crusts. 

"It  is  terrible,"  she  added.  And  he  agreed, 
"It  is  indeed." 

Their  voices  were  lowered.  They  withdrew 
to  a  world  which  contained  secrets  concerning 
themselves. 

Pierre  said,  "For  me  it  is  nothing.  But  I 
am  thinking  of  Natalie.  How  will  it  be  for 
her?" 

"She  will  be  like  the  others." 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        11 

His  face  contracted  in  pain.  "But  she  is 
American,  Lorraine.  This  is  not  her  coun- 
try." 

"She  loves  it  ...  and  you." 

"Ah,  yes,  but  it  is  not  the  same.  ...  It  will 
be  harder  for  her." 

"She  loves  you,"  softly  repeated  Lorraine. 

The  blue  of  his  eyes  lightened.  "That  is 
why  .  .  ." 

And  it  seemed,  as  they  stood  there,  that  the 
anguish  of  another  had  entered  the  room,  was 
pressing  between  them  like  a  wounded  creature 
asking  pity.  Their  hands  dropped. 

"One  can  do  nothing,''  sighed  Lorraine. 

The  same  fatality  weighed  upon  them,  bend- 
ing their  heads  to  the  pose  of  surrender. 

The  voices  of  the  others  jangled  in  their  ears 
like  so  many  peremptory  bells  striking  an  hour. 

Robert  de  Gency,  Germaine  Bourdon's 
fiance,  stood  by  the  young  girl,  his  pink  face 
expanding  in  a  patronizing  smile.  He  was 
neatly  molded  in  a  blue  uniform  that  bore  the 
recent  impress  of  the  tailor.  He  held  his  nar- 


12        CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

row  shoulders  with  a  newly  acquired  assertive- 
ness. 

"They  did  not  think  to  find  us  so  solid. 
Never  fear  .  .  .  we'll  get  them  in  a  very  short 
time.  I,  for  one,  predict  that  we  shall  be  in 
Berlin  by  the  autumn." 

Germaine  gazed  at  him  with  her  soul  in  her 
round  highly  colored  face.  None  was  so  brave 
as  Robert  de  Gency.  Not  one  of  her  brothers 
could  compare  with  this  dauntless  lover  of 
hers,  who,  only  a  few  days  ago,  had  been  a 
mild,  good-mannered  young  man,  creditably 
embarked  on  his  career  as  an  engineer. 

Doctor  Lejeune  caressed  his  golden  beard 
with  thoughtful  fingers. 

"Not  so  fast,  Monsieur  de  Gency,"  he  op- 
posed. "They  are  strong  .  .  .  those  people." 

Henri,  the  second  son,  a  tall  thin  youth, 
swaggered  across  the  floor,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  "We  will  get  them,"  he  pronounced. 

His  mother,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  al- 
lowed herself  the  luxury  of  a  sigh.  "For  me, 
I  wish  it  were  over." 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        13 

She  was  in  her  best  dress — a  black  satin  af- 
fair, profusely  trimmed  with  lace  and  jet.  Dia- 
mond earrings  twinkled  in  her  ears.  Her  pep- 
per-colored hair  was  elaborately  done  in  rolls 
and  puffs.  Her  eyes  kept  an  investigating 
look,  as  if  she  were  continually  examining  de- 
tails of  domestic  economy. 

Louise  Bourdon's  children  trotted  into  the 
room.  The  two  boys,  Jean  Paul  and  Henri, 
strutted  ahead,  dressed  in  tiny  uniforms  that 
gave  them  the  grotesque  appearance  of  ani- 
mated tin  soldiers.  Their  cheeks  bulged  with 
the  effort  to  look  martial.  They  held  miniature 
swords  whose  scabbards  dangled  around  their 
chubby  legs.  Their  infant  sister  toddled  after 
them  excitedly,  clutching  a  trumpet. 

They  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
saluted  to  the  accompaniment  of  applause  and 
laughter. 

Jean  Bourdon  swung  Paul  in  the  air. 

"Here  is  one  of  our  future  defenders!"  he 
cried. 


14         CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

Stimulated  by  the  attention  they  created, 
the  three  mites  became  boisterous.  Their  shrill 
play  pierced  the  air.  They  paraded,  casting 
sly  glances  at  their  elders  to  detect  further  ap- 
preciation. Rose  Marie  blew  her  trumpet  un- 
til the  clamor  of  mimicked  warfare  evoked  re- 
monstrances. Their  mother's  fretful  voice  rose 
sharply,  seconded  by  Raymond  Bourdon's  im- 
perious rebuke : 

"Enough,  children  ...  do  you  hear  me?" 

They  subsided  to  a  cowed  little  group  in  the 
corner,  where  they  held  a  consultation,  inter- 
rupted by  involuntary  outbursts. 

"When  are  you  off,  Robert?"  Jean  Bour- 
don asked  of  his  future  son-in-law. 

"I  must  be  at  my  depot  to-morrow." 

Germaine's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  she 
made  no  protest.  She  and  Robert  moved  aside 
and  stood  whispering,  gazing  at  one  another 
with  shy  adoration. 

"I  leave  to-night,"  cried  Raymond. 

"So  soon?"  came  a  low  distressed  exclama- 
tion from  his  wife. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE        15 

He  patted  her  kindly  on  the  shoulder.  "Ah 
well.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  poor  Louisette." 

"And  I  to-morrow,"  said  Henri. 

Jean  Bourdon  drew  a  long  breath.  "The 
business  will  suffer!"  Caught  in  a  sudden  gust 
of  anger,  he  shook  his  fist.  "Oh,  the  miserable 
ones!  to  have  brought  us  to  this!  See  you,  if 
I  were  younger,  and  could  leave  the  factory, 
I  would  be  off  with  you." 

His  wife  eyed  him  keenly.  "You  have 
enough  to  do  here,"  she  said. 

"And  where  is  our  Pierre  in  all  this?" 
observed  Doctor  Lejeune  suddenly.  He  had 
been  watching  Pierre  and  Lorraine. 

"Hola,  Pierre,  my  young  friend,  and  thou?" 

Pierre  turned  quickly  from  the  window  and 
as  if  in  spite  of  himself,  was  drawn  into  the 
center  of  the  room. 

"We  have  not  heard  from  you  to-day,"  con- 
tinued the  Doctor,  rubbing  his  hands  together 
softly. 

Pierre  gave  him  a  faint  smile.  "I  have  noth- 
ing to  say.  I  go  with  the  others." 


16        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

"And  when  is  that?" 

Raymond  interrupted  importantly.  "Prob- 
ably the  day  after  to-morrow,  isn't  it,  Pierre?" 

"Perhaps."  His  long  arms  hung  limply  at 
his  sides.  He  seemed  to  be  staring  beyond 
them,  past  the  walls  of  the  house,  out  into  the 
city  .  .  . 

His  father  said  with  a  slight  accent  of  an- 
noyance, "Come,  my  boy  ...  a  little  more 
heart." 

"Leave  him  alone!"  exclaimed  Madame  Jean 
Bourdon.  "Because  he  does  not  roar  with  the 
rest  of  you  is  no  reason  to  find  in  him  a  lack 
of  heart." 

"He  was  to  have  taken  his  diploma  at  the 
Beaux  Arts  this  Autumn,"  explained  Jean 
Bourdon  to  the  Doctor.  "It  is  a  pity,  but  what 
would  you?" 

The  children  were  at  Pierre's  heels.  The 
others,  ranged  in  a  semicircle,  drew  closer, 
their  eyes  claiming  him.  The  room  seemed 
smaller,  full  to  overflowing  with  Bourdons. 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        17 

They  were  his  kin.  And  they  were  gathered 
together,  perhaps,  for  the  last  time.  A  senti- 
ment of  fate  was  in  all  their  hearts.  The  next 
day  and  the  next  and  the  next  were  so  many 
roads  leading  from  the  home  to  those  red  fields 
where  men  were  to  fall  like  poppies  beneath 
the  threshing  machines. 

Pierre  stepped  forward,  consulting  his 
watch. 

"I  am  sorry;  I  must  go,"  he  said  in  a  con- 
strained voice. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  protest. 

"Ah,  no!"  declared  his  mother  with  sudden 
energy.  "You  are  not  polite  ..." 

"But,  Maman,  I  have  another  engagement." 

Henri  broke  in  mockingly,  "I  know!  .  .  . 
You're  going  to  see  your  American  friends!" 

Pierre  gave  him  a  steady  look.    "Precisely." 

"You  are  always  hanging  around  those  peo- 
ple," complained  Madame  Bourdon.  "Can 
you  not  stay  with  us  these  last  days?  One 


18        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

would  think  that  you  did  not  love  your  fam- 

ay." 

"I  have  promised,"  said  Pierre  gently. 

"Let  the  boy  go  to  his  friends,"  interceded 
the  Doctor  with  a  droll  wink.  "We  have  all 
been  young.  There  must  be  a  pretty  woman, — 
hein,  Pierre?" 

"Always  strangers,"  grumbled  Raymond, 
and  leaning  his  bulk  against  the  mantelpiece 
turned  his  back  on  his  brother. 

"They  say  Americans  are  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  all  women,"  cried  Henri  in  a  roguish 
way.  "For  me,  I  prefer  our  own.  They  have 
more  chic." 

As  each  of  the  men  began  offering  opinions 
of  the  subject,  Pierre  slid  up  to  his  mother, 
kissed  her  and  gained  the  door.  Her  voice 
followed  him. 

"When  will  you  be  home,  Pierre?" 

"In  a  few  hours,  Maman." 

"Really  it  is  not  nice  of  you!" 

Lorraine  glided  from  the  window  and,  edg- 
ing the  room,  reached  Pierre. 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE         19 

"Do  not  argue  .  .  .  Go,"  she  whispered. 
He  smiled  at  her  gratefully. 

"Good-by,  every  one,"  and  with  decision  he 
opened  the  door  and  was  gone. 

"Pierre  has  strange  manners,"  murmured 
Louise  Bourdon  sourly.  "Jean  Paul,  keep 
still,  or  you  will  he  punished." 

"Jean  Paul!"  echoed  Raymond's  warning 
voice. 

"He  met  many  strangers  at  the  Beaux 
Arts,"  pronounced  Jean  Bourdon  gravely. 
"But  all  that  will  be  over  now." 

With  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  settled  a 
problem  he  leaned  above  his  mother's  armchair. 
"What  do  you  say,  Mother?" 

Grandmother  Bourdon  wagged  her  head, 
stirring  vaguely,  as  if  a  familiar  voice  had  sum- 
moned her  from  sleep. 

"Eh  ...  eh  ...  to  be  sure,"  she  muttered, 
and  her  hands  fluttered  in  her  lap  like  wizened 
little  animals  that  have  been  disturbed. 


II 

THE  doors  and  windows  of  the  studio 
were  open.  Natalie  Shaw  wandered 
from  the  sunny  little  balcony  to  the 
couch  upon  which  her  brother  sprawled,  im- 
mersed in  smoke  and  reflection. 

"Felix,  I've  tried  and  tried  to  realize  what 
it  all  means.  But  I  feel  dazed.  I  can't  be- 
lieve it!" 

Felix  raised  himself  on  a  bony  elbow,  frown- 
ing at  his  lowered  pipe. 

"Nobody  can,"  he  remarked  gloomily,  but 
as  his  sister  stood  looking  down  with  a  plead- 
ing expression,  he  lifted  his  lank  figure  from 
the  cushions. 

"Poor  old  girl!" 

She  turned  away  quickly  as  if  to  escape  his 
sympathy.  "You  mustn't  mind  me  to-day, 
dear,"  she  apologized.  He  followed  her  to  the 

balcony,  flinging  an  arm  over  her  shoulder. 

20 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE         21 

"Buck  up,  Natalie!" 

The  thin  iron  railings  were  swathed  in  ivy. 
Geraniums  and  daisies  in  green  boxes  bordered 
the  ends.  The  wide  open  door  on  the  studio 
was  framed  with  climbing  nasturtiums. 

"I  don't  see  how  I'm  ever  going  to  stand  it," 
cried  Natalie.  "It  is  hard  ...  it  is  brutal! 
And  men  like  Pierre  are  going  to  suffer  for 
it." 

"Brutal  indeed,"  muttered  Felix,  and  added 
insincerely  that  perhaps  governments  would 
return  to  their  senses  before  the  entire  world 
was  plunged  into  confusion. 

But  Natalie  shook  her  head  and  gazed  out 
at  the  city,  as  if  she  were  seeing  it  for  the  last 
time. 

Felix  struggled  with  trite  words  of  cheer. 
But  his  own  heart  was  heavy.  For  he  also 
loved  Pierre.  Presently  they  two  stood  in 
silence,  their  tall  thin  bodies  outlined  against 
roof  and  sky. 

The  studio  was  perched  high,  overlooking 
roofs.  They  were  very  old  roofs  that  seemed 


22        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

to  have  lived  a  long  while  and  grown  wise  and 
mellow.  Their  quaint  pattern  was  a  seal 
of  the  city  set  in  the  sky.  The  dome  of  the 
Institut  and  the  tower  of  Saint  Jacques  peered 
over  a  fringe  of  chimneys.  And  far  away  on 
its  peak  hovered  the  Sacre-Cceur.  The  bells  of 
Saint-Germain  pealed  the  hour  like  a  theme, 
taken  and  repeated  by  distant  bells  calling  and 
answering.  .  .  . 

The  life  of  the  city  hidden  among  the  roofs 
drifted  upwards,  a  medley  of  interwoven  dis- 
cords. A  hollow  cooing  of  doves  sounded  near 
by.  The  smoke  from  chimneys  unfurled  gos- 
samer draperies.  And  below  in  the  shadow- 
less  old  courtyard  a  little  boy  was  playing  at 
war.  He  pranced  on  an  imaginary  steed  from 
one  end  to  the  other  of  the  courtyard.  He  blew 
a  toy  trumpet  and  beat  the  air  with  an  imagi- 
nary whip.  His  elbows  were  raised  and 
rounded.  He  lifted  high  his  bare  knees  as 
he  galloped.  He  was  a  brave  General  at  the 
head  of  his  troops.  The  courtyard  was  peo- 
pled with  enemies.  Battles  were  raging.  .  .  . 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE         23 

Natalie  thrust  out  her  hands  with  a  hope- 
less gesture.  "What  is  the  use  of  this,  if  men 
are  going  to  break  what  they  have  built?" 

The  sun  bore  down  on  the  roofs,  spread  in  a 
tangle  of  gold,  enmeshing  her  in  its  dazzle, 
lighting  her  dark  hair.  She  threw  back  her 
head  to  receive  the  shine  full  in  her  eyes.  But 
when  she  spoke  her  voice  sounded  as  if  it  came 
from  shadows. 

"Life  has  been  a  very  simple  affair  for  us, 
hasn't  it,  Felix?  You  have  had  your  archi- 
tecture, I  my  landscape  gardening  .  .  .  and 
Pierre.  We  have  been  happy.  There  was 
no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be.  We  asked  so 
little.  When  we  thought  about  the  world 
and  its  ways,  we  found  theories  that  fitted  hu- 
manity. We  considered  ourselves  identified 
with  an  emancipated  generation.  And  we  took 
smugly  for  granted  a  process  of  evolution  that 
included  us.  If  people  were  vain,  ugly,  am- 
bitious, envious,  we  consoled  ourselves  with  our 
pet  dreams.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  mounted  in 
gathering  passion.  "And  all  the  time  we  were 


24         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

rolling  on  ...  millions  and  millions  of  us 
I  .  .  to  this  immeasurable  catastrophe.  Why, 
we  don't  even  know  what  has  happened! 
We're  too  shaken  by  immediate  emotions  to 
realize.  .  .  .  But  later,  when  we  see  where  our 
science,  our  reforms,  our  prattle  of  govern- 
ments, our  .  .  .  civilization  has  led  us,  we  shall 
sicken  for  shame.  Then  it  will  be  too  late.  Do 
you  think  the  men  who  are  hurled  in  to  this 
madness  of  destruction  are  going  to  remember 
why  they  kill,  why  they  die?  As  they  fall, 
they  will  think  of  their  women,  of  their 
homes,  of  their  broken  dreams  and  crushed 
youth  ..."  She  broke  off  with  a  sobbing  in- 
take of  her  breath. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't  take  it  so  hard,  Natalie. 
There  have  been  other  wars." 

"Not  like  this  one.  We  have  spent  years 
and  years  stocking  up  horror  .  .  .  and  we 
called  it  other  names.  Look  .  .  ."  She  point- 
ed. A  workman  in  a  white  blouse  crawled  over 
a  roof  and  started  hammering.  The  sun  flat- 
tened him  against  the  blue  tiles,  as  if  the  force 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE        25 

of  heat  pinioned  him  in  place.  He  sang  as  he 
hammered,  and  the  duet  of  his  labor  and  his 
tenor  voice  seemed  louder  than  anything  else. 

"They  will  take  him  away  too,"  said  Natalie. 
"They  will  put  a  gun  in  his  hand  and  send  him 
out  to  kill.  Oh,  the  pity  of  it!" 

Below,  the  trees  in  a  garden  spread  their 
heavy  foliage  in  crushed  blots  of  green.  The 
odor  of  flowers  stirred  the  air. 

Felix  said  gently:  "Little  comrade,  all  this 
is  true.  But  there  is  no  way  out.  And  so  we 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Pierre  came  into  the  studio  so  quietly  that 
neither  of  them  heard.  He  paused  and  looked 
at  them  as  they  stood  on  the  balcony  like  two 
lovers.  And  he  gave  no  sign  until  he  had  fixed 
the  image  of  them  in  his  heart.  Whatever  came 
to  him  thereafter,  he  would  have  this  image 
intact. 

Then  he  called— "Natalie  .  .  .  Felix!"  and 
they  turned  and  were  with  him. 

Natalie  went  straight  to  his  arms  as  she  had 


26        CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

never  done  before.  "Peter,  I  thought  you 
would  never  come !" 

"Oh,  my  beloved  .  .  ."  was  all  he  could  say. 

Felix  took  his  hand  in  a  warm  steady  clasp. 
"Old  fellow,  we're  .  .  .  we're  mighty  glad  to 
see  you." 

"Must  you  go  too?"  Her  voice  wavered. 
"Does  this  mean  that  you  must  go?" 

He  nodded,  smiling  bravely. 

She  controlled  herself  with  effort.  "But  you 
are  not  strong  enough.  You  were  never  meant 
to  be  a  soldier." 

"I  have  two  eyes,  two  arms,  two  legs,"  he 
answered.  They  stayed,  looking  at  one  an- 
other. Her  eyes  were  dark  with  tragic  vision. 

Then,  "It  will  not  be  for  long,"  he  consoled, 
quoting  his  brothers,  and  he  added  without  con- 
viction, "It  had  to  be." 

She  answered,  "If  it  were  only  for  a  day,  it 
would  be  too  long.  It  does  not  take  a  day  to 
kiU." 

"I  have  no  hate  in  my  heart,"  he  told  her. 

"Armies  have  no  hate,"  she  reflected  drear- 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        27 

ily.  "But  they  kill  just  the  same.  I  shall 
never  be  resigned  to  it  .  .  .  never!" 

Felix  busied  himself  bringing  out  a  siphon, 
a  bottle,  cigarettes.  He  could  not  do  enough 
for  his  friend.  He  circled  about  Pierre,  setting 
things  before  him.  His  lean  good-natured 
face  was  animated  with  an  imposed  cheerful- 
ness. "Have  a  drink,  old  man.  Isn't  it  too 
warm  in  here?  Natalie  and  I  are  lizards.  Shall 
I  draw  the  curtains?" 

"Leave  them,"  said  Pierre  quickly.  "I  love 
to  look  out." 

It  seemed  to  the  three  of  them  as  if  nothing 
had  changed.  They  sat  close  together,  relax- 
ing into  a  habit  of  intimacy  that  soothed  them 
like  a  shared  illusion. 

The  room  was  a  beloved  place  and  wore  its 
shabbiness  as  a  lovely  woman  wears  homemade 
clothes.  Faded  blue  stuffs  hung  softly  on  either 
side  of  the  window.  The  old  wicker  chairs 
and  the  couch  had  borrowed  hollows  and  curves. 
Two  high  stools  claimed  relationship  with  two 
pleasantly  littered  work  tables,  one  belonging 


28        CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

to  Felix,  the  other  to  Natalie.  Books,  flowers, 
architect's  implements,  watercolors  and  plans 
for  houses  and  for  gardens  were  strewn  about. 
The  notched  gray  walls  were  decorated  with 
plans  and  sketches. 

Felix  clung  to  his  pipe.  He  lolled  in  an 
easy  chair,  one  bony  leg  propped  over  the 
other;  and  gazing  benevolently  at  nothing  in 
particular,  talked  about  things  he  and  Pierre 
loved:  the  Beaux  Arts,  pranks  of  comrades, 
the  last  competition.  But  he  spoke  of  days 
that  were  finished,  dwelling  upon  them  as  upon 
past  joys.  There  was  no  mention  of  the  fu- 
ture. And  gradually  his  talk  slackened.  So 
they  stayed  in  silence,  until  Pierre,  drawing  a 
deep  sigh,  wandered  over  to  the  balcony. 

Natalie  followed  him  there.  Her  eyes  in 
the  sunlight  were  the  color  of  first  lilacs  in 
Spring.  Her  face  was  very  still,  like  a  flower 
on  a  hot  day. 

"I  shall  always  think  of  you  on  this  balcony," 
said  Pierre.  "You  are  a  High  Priestess  of 
the  city.  Tell  me  how  it  can  be  so  quiet,  when 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         29 

all  the  elements  that  go  to  make  up  humanity 
are  ebbing  and  flowing  through  those  laby- 
rinths ?  Life,  after  all,  makes  very  little  sound. 
To-day  men  and  women  are  heavy  with  destiny, 
and  the  city  holds  them  as  a  field  does  its  seeds. 
We  do  not  see  the  truth  from  here.  The  roofs 
are  strong  lids  muffling  the  passions  of  men. 
The  smoke  that  drifts  so  peacefully  from  the 
chimneys  is  cast-off  dreams.  And  the  win- 
dows .  .  .  count  them  .  .  .  you  cannot.  As 
soon  count  leaves  on  a  tree.  Yet  behind  each 
window  life  lies  in  ambush.  To  think,  Natalie, 
that  I  am  a  builder  of  cities !  I  can  cover  the 
land  with  houses  in  which  men  can  hide  and 
scheme  and  love.  .  .  ."  He  turned  swiftly,  his 
hand  on  her  arm.  His  face  was  ardent  with 
unfulfilled  vision. 

"Oh,  my  beloved,  what  gods  we  are!  You 
the  maker  of  gardens,  and  I  the  builder  of 
cities.  We  will  work  together,  -von't  we?  Al- 
ways together.  Every  house  shall  have  its  gar- 
den, where  men  may  gather  sweetness  and  rest 
for  a  while.  The  world  will  be  the  better  for 


30        CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

it.     Houses  are  the  images  of  their  century. 
We  will  make  them  live  in  noble  places  even 
if  their  hearts  are  ugly  .  .  ."      His  rapture 
slid  from  him  like  a  receding  wave.    He  stood 
brooding.    "But  now  we  shall  have  to  wait." 
Natalie  echoed  the  word  drearily,  "Wait?" 
"Until  I  come  back,"  he  said,  and,  with  his 
hands  lying  on  her  shoulders  and  his  eyes  meet- 
ing hers,  he  promised : 
"I  will  come  back." 

The  bells  of  Saint-Germain  were  ringing. 
They  rang  as  if  they  would  never  stop,  as  if 
their  voices  must  reach  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
awakening  sleepers.  They  told  men  there  was 
no  way  of  escaping  fate.  They  told  women 
there  was  no  use  in  weeping. 

Natalie  and  Pierre  walked  out  together, 
driven  by  the  same  need  of  mingling  with  the 
people  this  day.  It  was  as  Sunday.  The 
streets  were  bright  with  flags  that  glowed  like 
promises  of  glory,  showing  men  why  they 
should  die.  It  was  as  if  the  same  curiosity,  the 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE        31 

same  anguish,  the  same  pride  had  entered  into 
the  people  as  into  a  heart,  and  sent  them  out 
to  seek  one  another  and  to  share  a  universal 
experience.  In  a  night  their  faces  had  been 
stamped  by  a  common  destiny.  There  was  no 
class.  There  were  no  strangers.  The  throng 
moved  like  a  deep  sea  with  hidden  eddies  and 
currents. 

Pierre  and  Natalie  sat  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Deux  Magots,  opposite  Saint-Germain-des- 
Pres.  They  ordered  beer,  but  they  could  not 
drink.  They  were  conscious  of  the  minutes 
like  little  matches  flaring  and  burning  out, 
until  there  should  be  no  more.  They  did  not 
look  at  one  another.  Pierre's  face  slanted  to- 
wards the  sun.  He  stared  at  the  sky  as  at  a 
rare  flower  that  is  fading.  Natalie  watched 
the  people  flocking  past,  with  an  increasing 
sense  of  helplessness.  Her  identity  was  sub- 
merged in  the  compelling  unity  of  the  crowd. 
Their  loss  was  her  loss,  their  hope  her  own. 

There  was  a  newsstand  in  front  of  the  ter- 


32        CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

race.  The  people  fastened  to  it  like  flies.  Men 
and  women  shouldered  one  another,  greedy  for 
morsels  of  news.  Papers  were  shuffled  from 
hand  to  hand.  A  fat  wheezy  man  posted  near 
the  dwindling  stock  gave  out  his  opinions  like 
pamphlets.  He  was  listened  to  respectfully. 
"They  will  never  dare  touch  Belgium,"  he  was 
saying.  A  peaked  looking  woman  in  shabby 
clothes  pressed  nearer,  gaping  up  at  him  as  if 
he  were  an  oracle.  A  man  with  a  purple  rib- 
bon in  his  bottonhole  exchanged  views  with  a 
bulky  workman  in  corduroys.  Street  urchins 
nosed  inquisitively  in  and  out  of  the  shifting 
group.  Whenever  a  uniform  gleamed  it  drew 
women  like  a  magnet. 

"You  will  not  forget  me?"  Pierre  said. 

She  turned  and  put  her  hand  over  his.  The 
gesture  fitted  in  with  the  hour.  As  he  leaned 
towards  her,  she  moved  her  chair,  lessening  the 
distance  between  them. 

"I  will  wait  for  you,"  she  told  him. 

"Natalie,  I  love  you  so.  I  cannot  believe 
that  we  have  only  a  little  while  longer  to- 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         33 

gether.  When  I  am  with  you  my  heart  feels 
like  a  clear  fountain  gushing  up  to  the  sky. 
All  I  do,  all  I  am,  belongs  to  you.  There  are 
times  in  a  man's  life  when  he  comes  to  cross- 
roads. Whichever  way  I  look  I  see  you,  the 
sweet  companion.  How  can  I  go  on  without 
you?" 

"But  I  shaU  be  with  you."  She  felt  very 
calm  and  strong  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing 
as  parting. 

A  squad  of  men  marched  by.  They  wore 
their  patriotism  like  a  loaded  gun.  There  was 
a  serious  concentrated  look  in  their  faces,  as  if 
they  were  memorizing  a  long  poem. 

The  gray  square  of  Saint-Germain  blazed  in 
the  heat.  The  church  loomed  with  open  doors 
and  dusky  vistas.  Vendors  peddled  little  paper 
flags  and  red,  white  and  blue  ribbons.  Every 
one  wore  some  symbol  of  France.  Little  men 
in  new,  ill-fitting  uniforms,  burdened  with 
knapsacks  and  bulky  parcels,  hurried  along, 
flinging  a  word  or  a  nod  at  the  women  who 


34         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

stared  at  them  with  moist  eyes.  A  bewildered 
old  couple  tottered  past,  clinging  to  one  an- 
other. Every  pace  or  so  they  would  stop  and 
peer  about  anxiously,  muttering  and  shaking 
their  heads.  Motors  packed  with  excited  young 
soldiers  flew  up  the  Boulevard.  An  ambulance  . 
passed,  gliding  silently,  like  a  gray  bird. 

"It  is  the  unknown  that  is  so  terrible,"  Pierre 
said.  "A  few  days  ago  life  was  arranged  in 
a  certain  way.  We  had  our  own  problems,  our 
work,  our  play.  We  made  our  lives  as  a 
sculptor  models  an  image.  We  felt  safe 
enough — safe  in  our  beds,  safe  in  the  streets, 
among  our  friends.  We  could  not  look  beyond 
a  given  point,  but  we  could  plan.  .  .  .  Now 
all  that  is  different.  We  belong  to  a  national 
destiny.  We  are  its  chessmen,  to  win  or  lose. 
These  men  and  women  around  us  have  lost 
their  right  to  act  independently.  They  must 
obey.  There  is  no  love  that  counts  or 
serves.  .  .  ." 

"I  can  hardly  bear  it,"  murmured  Natalie. 
"It  is  so  unreal.  The  city  is  the  same.  Even 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        35 

this  little  cafe  is  the  same  as  it  was  a  week  ago. 
It  goes  on  serving  drinks.  Soon  it  will  be 
dinnertime,  and  people  will  eat.  Dogs  bark 
and  bells  ring  and  there  are  funerals  and  chil-  , 
dren  are  born.  Why  don't  they  leave  us 
alone?" 

"Unreality  is  the  only  reality  after  all,"  re- 
flected Pierre,  touching  his  glass  as  if  it  were 
a  bubble.  "What  we  call  unreality  is  what 
we  have  never  experienced.  Once  it  is  thrust 
upon  us,  we  become  associated  with  it  more  re- 
lentlessly than  with  our  past  illusions.  Soon 
war  will  be  the  only  reality." 

A  dull  humming  overhead  drew  their  atten- 
tion. Circling  in  the  blue  sky  like  a  gull  was 
an  aeroplane.  Its  long  wings  were  sheathed 
in  light.  It  seemed  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
earthly  anguish.  Those  below  stopped  and 
pointed,  as  people  who  in  bondage  suddenly 
see  something  free. 

"A  month  ago  that  would  have  been  a  beau- 
tiful sight,  another  proof  of  man's  mastery  over 
the  elements,"  murmured  Pierre  dreamily. 


36        CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

"To-day  it  means  an  item  of  destruction,  an 
instrument  of  warfare.  Who  knows  where  it 
is  going?" 

Natalie  shuddered.  "For  a  moment  I  en- 
vied it.  It  seemed  a  tiny  part  of  our  best  selves, 
escaping.  Must  we  turn  all  our  visions  into 
forces  of  destruction?  Peter,  there  will  be 
death  in  the  sky  too,  then?" 

He  nodded.  "There  will  be  death  every- 
where." 

The  great  bird  soared  on  its  trackless  way. 
The  burry  drone  grew  fainter. 

A  drunken  man  reeled  by  shouting  the 
Marseillaise,  flinging  his  arms  about  in  crazy 
gestures.  He  slanted  across  the  square  grin- 
ning foolishly  at  the  groups  that  elbowed  him 
aside. 

"Natalie,  suppose  I  don't  come  back?" 

"Pierre  .  .  .  please!" 

"We  must  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "It  may 
happen.  When  so  many  men  go,  my  beloved, 
they  cannot  all  come  back.  Should  it  be  so, 
you  must  not  grieve  too  much.  You  must  al- 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        37 

ways  remember  how  happy  I  have  been.  I 
shall  have  left  my  youth  and  love  with  you  as 
eternal  things.  You  will  go  on  working.  You 
will  create  beautiful  gardens  ...  so  many 
shrines  to  our  love." 

At  the  sight  of  her  stricken  face  and  wet 
eyes,  he  hastened  on,  "But  I  will  come  back, 
Natalie."  Then  as  both  of  them  were  shaken 
by  emotion — for  he  had  lifted  a  veil  and  shown 
dark  places — they  braced  themselves  in  re- 
newed effort  and  smiled  as  if  their  faith  were 
invincible. 

"I  know  you  will,"  she  assured  him.  "We 
are  foolish  to  fear." 

"I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  family,"  he 
began,  stroking  her  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  small 
white  table.  "I  have  always  avoided  speaking 
about  them.  Now  I  see  that  I  was  wrong. 
They  should  have  met  you  before.  ...  I  have 
never  been  free,  dear — free  as  you  understand 
it  in  your  country.  Here  in  France  our  ways 
are  different."  He  smiled  wanly.  "Our  fam- 
ilies are  little  monarchies.  The  children  can- 


38        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

not  settle  their  lives  as  they  will.  You  see, 
Natalie,  we  are  taught  to  obey  our  parents 
even  when  we  are  grown  up.  In  questions  of 
career  .  .  .  and  marriage  we  must  consult 
our  fathers  and  mothers.  Most  often  it  is  they 
who  decide.  I  wanted  to  be  a  painter,  and  my 
father  made  me  an  architect.  But  he  was 
wise.  .  .  ." 

Natalie  wrinkled  her  forehead  and  moved 
suddenly  aside.  "But,  Peter,  that  seems  a  ter- 
rible thing.  Where  then  is  your  individu- 
ality?" 

"In  our  world  that  is  not  considered  neces- 
sary," he  said  simply.  "We  are  supposed  to 
go  on  in  the  same  way — keeping  up  the  tradi- 
tions of  our  elders,  modeling  our  lives  on  the 
lives  of  our  fathers.  We  are  supposed  to 
marry  to  suit  them." 

"Suppose  they  don't  like  me  then?"  broke  in 
Natalie. 

"When  they  know  you  as  I  do,  they  can- 
not help  loving  you.  But  .  .  ." 

"But  what?" 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         39 

He  hesitated.  "It  may  be  difficult  at  first, 
dear.  They  do  not  like  strangers.  But  we 
must  be  patient."  His  voice  grew  apologetic. 
"They  are  good  honest  people  with  old-fash- 
ioned ideas.  They  may  be  afraid  of  you,  Nat- 
alie. You  are  not  like  our  young  girls.  You 
are  a  worker  .  .  ." 

"Wouldn't  they  be  glad  of  that?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  would  not  ap- 
prove of  it,  nor  of  your  living  here  alone  with 
dear  Felix.  But  the  war  will  change  many 
things.  They  cannot  refuse  me  when  I  come 
back." 

"And  if  they  should?" 

"They  will  not!"  he  cried.  "They  must  give 
in.  To  marry  at  all  it  is  necessary  to  have 
their  written  consent.  If  they  will  not  give 
it  there  are  legal  proceedings  of  course.  .  .  . 
But  they  will  not  force  me  to  resort  to  such 
things." 

"I  think  it  is  all  wrong  and  absurd!"  ex- 
claimed Natalie.  "How  can  you  stand  it?" 

He  showed  his  distress.      "Beloved,  don't 


40         CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

condemn  them.  Remember  it  has  always  been 
so.  For  example,  take  my  Aunt  Lorraine. 
You  will  love  her.  She  is  very  unhappy.  Her 
husband,  my  father's  brother,  died  two  years 
ago.  And  Lorraine  loves  a  young  Polish 
sculptor.  She  dares  not  tell  the  family.  They 
would  feel  bitter  and  hostile  about  her  mar- 
riage, especially  to  a  foreigner  and  an  artist." 

"She  will  not  give  him  up  for  that,  will  she?" 
Her  voice  rose  sharply.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
questioning  Pierre  about  herself. 

"It  is  harder  now.  They  would  never  for- 
give her  for  marrying  a  man  who  is  not  going 
to  fight.  Poor  Lorraine !"  He  bowed  his  head, 
and  Natalie  felt  a  dull  pain  in  her  heart  be- 
cause she  realized  that  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  Lorraine  might  claim  her  freedom  in  spite 
of  them.  Resentment  against  them  kept  her 
quiet.  She  did  not  wish  to  hurt  Pierre  by  an 
impulsive  expression  of  an  attitude.  But  for 
the  first  time  in  their  relationship  she  saw  him 
as  a  man  of  another  race,  other  traditions,  other 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE         41 

cults,  and  it  was  as  if  suddenly  he  had  become 
a  stranger. 

He  leaned  forward,  divining  her  reticence. 
His  face  was  young  and  tender.  "Natalie,  do 
not  blame  them.  They  are  good  people  and 
they  love  me." 

"But  they  own  you,"  she  said  in  a  hard  little 
voice.  "You  spirit  is  not  your  own,  my  Peter. 
You  are  going  out  now  to  fight,  because  they 
expect  it  of  you.  They  expect  you  to  work  and 
to  marry  as  they  wish.  I  don't  see  any  free- 
dom in  a  life  like  that." 

"There  are  other  things,"  he  answered  sob- 
erly. "It  is  beautiful  to  be  one  of  a  clan. 
The  children  of  past  generations,  our  children, 
their  children,  compose  a  protective  social 
force.  The  strength  of  France  lies  in  its  con- 
servatism. Selfishness  is  a  disintegrating  in- 
fluence." He  spoke  with  the  voice  of  his 
father. 

"Pierre,  I  cannot  understand.  Every  human 
being  should  have  the  right  of  choice.  We 
have  brains  and  hearts  to  use  according  to  our 


42         CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

vision  and  the  place  we  elect  in  society.  We 
need  not  be  destructive  elements  because  of 
that.  .  .  .  But  do  not  let  us  talk  of  these 
things  now.  We  have  so  little  time  .  .  ." 

There  was  so  little  time.  It  seemed  so  with 
every  one  around  her.  Women  clung  to  their 
men,  children  to  their  fathers.  It  was  the 
solemn  prelude  to  separation,  the  consciousness 
of  impending  drama  and  the  disbanding  of 
homes.  Beyond  stretched  the  unknown.  The 
enemy  was  in  the  city  ...  an  alien  presence 
sounding  a  tocsin. 

Then  she  and  Pierre  spoke  of  precious 
fragile  things.  And  every  look  seemed  the 
supreme  one. 


Ill 

PIERRE  was  to  leave  early  one  morn- 
ing. 
Natalie  and  Felix  drove  together  to 
the  station  at  Charenton  to  see  him  off.  It 
was  a  long  way.  Felix  held  Natalie's  hand 
very  tightly.  His  old  slouch  hat  was  pulled 
over  his  eyes.  His  lean  brown  face  held  an 
expression  of  inarticulate  tenderness.  Every 
once  in  a  while  he  glanced  at  his  sister,  ventur- 
ing a  comment  or  a  question.  But  the  words 
trailed  into  silence.  And  he  ended  with  an 
unlit  pipe  between  his  teeth. 

Natalie  did  not  seem  aware  of  his  presence. 
She  sat  in  the  open  motor,  swaying  to  its  mo- 
tion like  a  pliable  reed.  She  was  quiet  as 
women  are  who  renounce  appeal.  A  mo- 
notonous rhythm  ticked  in  her  head:  "He  must 
go — he  must  go."  But  beyond  that  there  was 
no  sense  of  reality.  The  city  claimed  her,  car- 

43 


44         CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

rying  her  forward  on  resistless  waves  of  fa- 
tality. 

It  was  a  radiant  day — one  of  those  days  that 
pour  light  and  fragrance  from  a  golden  urn. 
It  did  not  seem  possible  that  any  living  crea- 
ture should  suffer.  But  through  the  streets 
sounded  the  hum  of  departure.  The  city  was 
giving,  and  giving  its  youth.  The  people  of 
Paris  streamed  from  their  homes,  obeying  a 
call.  Over  the  bridges,  over  the  broad  high- 
ways pointing  to  the  stations,  on  foot  or  in  car- 
riage, in  a  steady  exodus,  went  fathers,  hus- 
bands, lovers,  brightly  dressed  in  the  colors  of 
war.  Beside  them,  dumb  or  weeping,  stoic  or 
rebellious,  were  their  women.  These  men,  feel- 
ing the  tragic  eyes  upon  them,  rehearsed  their 
role  for  the  drama.  Some  of  them  sang,  others 
wagged  bold  tongues,  others  whispered  words 
of  comfort  and  hope.  The  gestures  of  yes- 
terday were  not  those  of  to-day.  All  that  had 
gone  before  counted  for  nothing.  Men  and 
women  had  loved,  deceived,  slaved,  planned 
and  desired  in  every  intimate  phase  of  exist- 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         45 

ence,  to  reach  this  result :  to  yield  up  the  weap- 
ons of  life  for  the  weapons  of  death. 

It  seemed  to  Natalie  that  she  saw  an  image 
of  Pierre  and  herself  in  every  human  couple 
she  passed.  She  wanted  to  cry  out  to  them — 
"Go  back!  .  .  .  Go  back  to  your  homes.  Oh, 
what  are  we  all  doing?  ..."  But  it  was  too 
late.  They  were  possessed  by  national  dis- 
aster. 

The  motor  sped  onwards,  along  the  quais, 
past  the  Institut,  past  the  blue  and  gold 
cupolas  of  the  Samaritaine,  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice, Notre  Dame.  The  Seine  slid  like  quick- 
silver under  the  glistening  bridges.  And  as 
each  familiar  silhouette  of  the  city  dropped 
away,  it  was  like  a  relinquished  hope. 

They  were  two  of  an  endless  procession 
traveling  to  the  brink  of  sacrifice.  They  delved 
into  a  sordid  quarter  where  slovenly  houses 
squatted  along  the  dingy  streets,  where  the  air 
was  laden  with  the  odors  of  poverty.  Even  here 
the  wage-earners  were  setting  out  from  one 
task  to  another.  Families  tramped  to  the  part- 


46        CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

ing  place,  dumbly  conscious  of  impending  loss. 
Hatless  women  in  calico,  heavy  with  child, 
trudged  beside  the  wage-earners,  their  broods 
straggling  behind.  As  the  motor  brayed  its 
warning  they  stepped  aside. 

A  young  workman  waved  and  shouted: 
"Vive  la  France!" 

The  cry  swelled  suddenly,  bursting  from 
many  throats  in  united  challenge: 

"Vive  la  France!" 

They  flung  it  superbly  to  the  winds,  ac- 
claiming the  symbol  for  which  they  were  will- 
ing to  die. 

Natalie,  wakened  as  if  by  a  bugle,  leaned  far 
out  of  the  motor,  echoing,  "Vive  la  France!" 
until  the  uplifted  fervent  faces  were  lost  to 
view.  Then  she  turned  to  Felix  for  the  first 
time  that  morning. 

"How  wonderful  they  are!"  She  was 
vibrant  as  a  string  that  has  been  touched  by 
a  master  hand. 

"Why,  certainly  they  are!"  cried  Felix 
warmly.  "It's  a  great  country.  Just  look  at 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        47 

that!  It  must  be  one  of  those  German  shops 
we  read  about.  Not  much  left  of  it,  is  there?" 
His  manner  was  conversational,  but  he  eyed 
Natalie  anxiously  as  if  not  certain  of  her  re- 
sponse. 

She  stared  in  the  direction  of  his  forefinger 
at  a  little  white  milk-shop  which  was  crushed 
like  an  egg  shell.  It  cowered  among  the  other 
houses,  a  beaten  alien  thing,  wrecked  and 
despised  by  the  mob.  In  its  desolation  and 
helplessness  it  sounded  the  awesome  theme  of 
war.  There  would  be  no  mercy  anywhere,  on 
land,  on  sea,  under  the  sea,  in  the  sky.  The 
little  shop  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  the 
drama. 

"How  can  they!"  broke  from  her. 

Felix  answered  phlegmatically,  "It's  all  in 
the  game." 

"What  a  game!"  Her  eyes  rebuked  human- 
ity. 

The  city  dwindled  to  ragged  suburbs.  The 
motor  halted  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  where  houses 
were  scarce  and  dust  lay  thickly  over  meager 


48        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

leaves  and  grass.     At  the  top  of  the  hill  was 
a  barrier,  beyond  it  the  little  station. 

Up  the  steep  road  with  lagging  steps  toiled 
the  people.  Their  faces  were  turned  towards 
one  another,  their  arms  linked.  They  spoke 
in  low  voices  of  the  homely  problems  that  made 
up  their  hard  working  lives,  and  they  raised 
their  voices  to  predict  swift  victory. 

Then  there  was  Pierre  surrounded  by  his 
family.  But  it  was  a  new  Pierre  in  a  blue 
coat  and  red  trousers,  who  stood  very  straight, 
staring  down  the  hill  with  strained  eyes  that 
hunted  for  and  found  Natalie. 

Next  he  was  saying  timidly,  "My  American 
friends,  Natalie  and  Felix  Shaw!  .  .  .  Nata- 
lie, here  is  my  father  and  mother — my  brother 
Henri,  who  leaves  to-morrow — my  sister — my 
sister-in-law.  .  .  .  And  here  is  Lorraine." 

Natalie  smiled  at  them  with  impulsive  ten- 
derness. They  faced  her  in  a  compact  little 
group,  their  hands  automatically  tendered  in 
turn.  They  were  very  courteous.  Monsieur 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         49 

Bourdon,  the  spokesman,  told  her  how  often 
they  had  heard  Pierre  speak  of  his  friends,  and 
how  kind  it  was  of  her  and  her  brother  to  come 
so  far  to  say  good-by  to  his  son.  Madame 
Bourdon  apologized  for  the  place  and  the  hour, 
as  if  she  were  a  hostess  under  difficult  circum- 
stances, adding  that  they  had  three  sons  going 
to  fight,  and  that  the  war  was  a  terrible  but 
unavoidable  thing.  France  must  annihilate 
once  and  for  all  an  inherited  enemy. 

Their  formal  manner  dismayed  Natalie.  She 
had  been  prepared  to  share  with  them  the 
anguish  of  parting.  Instead,  her  coming 
seemed  to  have  tightened  a  closed  circle.  They 
encompassed  Pierre,  claiming  a  prior  right 
over  him.  A  tacit  understanding  linked  them 
against  an  intruder.  They  bore  their  kinship 
to  one  another  as  the  parts  of  a  small  strong 
machine  are  fitted  into  an  integral  unity. 
Their  courtesy  set  her  in  an  established  scheme 
of  society  from  which  she  was  not  supposed  to 
move.  The  occasion  dictated  control  and  dig- 


50        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

nity,  for  as  an  institution  they  must  be  an  ex- 
ample to  those  around  them. 

But  Pierre  did  not  appear  conscious  of  their 
attitude.  A  little  smile  fastened  to  his  finely 
drawn  lips  seemed  to  have  been  put  there  a 
long  while  ago  and  forgotten.  It  ranged 
from  Natalie  to  the  others,  and  back  again, 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  connect  them  in  his  com- 
prehensive love.  Blue  shadows  lay  beneath 
his  eyes,  forming  sensitive  hollows.  He  was 
pale  and  calm. 

His  father  stood  importantly  beside  him, 
with  rounded  chest  and  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back.  The  red  ribbon  burned  in  his  button- 
hole. He  seemed  absorbed  in  weighty  expecta- 
tion, like  a  man  waiting  his  turn  to  deposit 
gold  in  a  bank.  Louise  Bourdon,  sallow  in 
the  morning  shine,  whispered  to  Germaine, 
whose  mild  brown  eyes  showed  traces  of  weep- 
ing. Henri,  encased  in  a  Zouave  uniform, 
smoked  Oriental  cigarettes  and  chatted  with 
Felix.  Madame  Bourdon,  posted  in  front  of 
Pierre,  addressed  him  at  intervals  in  a  crisp 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        51 

decided  voice.  Her  black  suit  fitted  her  neatly. 
But  wisps  of  hair  straggling  from  her  veil  gave 
her  a  vaguely  disheveled  look. 

"You  have  plenty  of  chocolate.  ...  I  hope 
you  are  warm  enough.  .  .  .  One  never  knows 
in  this  weather.  ...  I  will  send  you  the  prop- 
er things  if  it  gets  colder.  .  .  .  You  will  re- 
ceive a  package  every  week."  She  bent  to 
remove  a  spot  of  caked  mud  on  his  sleeve, 
scratching  it  off  with  her  black-gloved  finger. 
Her  forehead  was  creased  in  an  effort  to  re- 
member final  instructions. 

Lorraine  Bourdon  drooped  in  the  back- 
ground. Natalie  looked  at  her  with  wistful 
sympathy.  Once  she  met  Lorraine's  eyes 
transmitting  a  message,  and  she  felt  less  lonely. 

The  group  shifted.  Natalie  found  Pierre 
beside  her,  and  they  two  walked  away,  turning 
their  backs  on  the  Bourdons. 

She  slipped  a  small  parcel  in  his  hand,  whis- 
pering, "Here  is  my  picture,  dear  .  .  .  and 
a  little  gold  cross.  May  they  keep  you  from 
harm." 


52         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

With  a  swift  eager  gesture  he  thrust  them 
in  his  coat,  over  his  heart.  "I  shall  wear  them 
always,  beloved."  Then  as  if  he  were  afraid 
that  he  would  not  have  time  to  tell  her  all  that 
he  had  to  say  he  began  to  speak  very  quickly. 
From  his  manner  she  divined  suddenly  that 
supreme  issues  were  at  stake. 

He  said:  "Natalie,  I  want  you  to  know. 
You  must  know  what  has  happened  to  me. 
Yesterday  I  was  afraid.  I  could  have  killed 
myself  to  escape  what  lay  before  me.  I  was 
not  afraid  of  danger  or  even  death.  I  am 
no  coward.  But  it  was  the  mind  .  .  .  my 
mind,  Natalie.  They  could  not  expect  me  to 
go  out  like  a  savage  and  kill  without  ques- 
tion. I  had  to  have  a  reason  stronger  than  my 
instincts,  a  reason  that  linked  humanity  and 
its  manifestations  with  evolution  and  God. 
The  thought  was  too  terrible  .  .  .  the  thought 
of  millions  of  men  hurled  murderously  against 
one  another  in  lust  and  hate,  the  thought  of 
ravaged  land,  wrecked  homes,  desolate  women 
.  .  .  the  thought  of  millions  of  brains  wasted, 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         53 

of  the  art,  the  science,  the  youth  of  Europe 
sacrificed.  For  what?  There  are  the  obvious 
motives  for  which  men  will  fight  .  .  .  country 
and  honor.  But  go  deeper.  Analyze  these 
motives,  and  you  will  find  men  fighting  because 
other  men  fight,  or  because  they  are  afraid  not 
to  fight,  or  to  acquire  glory  and  power.  I  don't 
want  to  kill.  I  don't  want  to  throw  away  any 
of  the  gifts  civilization  has  given  me,  unless  in 
offering  my  life  I  am  benefiting  future  human- 
ity. If  I  had  been  left  alone  I  would  have 
created,  built,  justified  my  place  in  a  construc- 
tive society.  Or  else  I  should  have  been  a  sol- 
dier from  the  beginning  ...  an  automaton 
with  a  gun.  But  at  first  there  seemed  no  rea- 
son. I  was  like  a  man  battling  in  the  dark 
with  an  unknown  enemy.  Then  .  .  .  then  it 
came  to  me." 

His  voice  was  low  and  urgent,  as  if  he  were 
pleading  a  vital  cause.  When  he  told  Natalie 
that  he  had  been  afraid,  he  bowed  his  head,  but 
gradually  he  was  lifted  by  the  torrent  of  his 
words,  until  he  stood  in  a  kind  of  mystic  ex- 


54        CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

pectancy,  his  face  turned  towards  her  with 
fathomless  yearning. 

He  paused  for  an  intake  of  breath,  and  Na- 
talie waited,  in  tense  immobility,  her  mind 
scouting  ahead  in  treacherous  zones  of  doubt 
and  anguish. 

Pierre  continued  as  if  reciting  a  profession 
of  faith:  "War  is  the  outcome  of  the  eternal 
forces  of  life — good  and  evil.  These  forces 
mingle  cunningly  with  social  evolution  until 
such  a  time  as,  crashing  through  established 
elements,  they  take  their  primitive  forms.  We 
are  the  instruments  composing  the  armies.  We 
fight  in  sublime  obedience  to  the  law  of  good 
against  evil.  Do  you  not  see,  Natalie,  that  we 
are  not  only  saving  our  national  ideals ;  we  are 
preserving  the  immortal  functions  of  good? 
When  I  kill,  I  shall  not  be  killing  for  a  tempo- 
rary advantage  of  boundary  lines.  I  shall  be 
suppressing  just  so  much  evil.  In  this  gigan- 
tic duel,  governments  are  symbols  of  greater 
adversaries.  It  could  not  be  otherwise,  could 
it?  Think,  that  men  of  all  classes,  all  religions, 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         55 

are  massed  together  to-day  for  the  purpose  of 
destruction.  It  comes  to  that,  whether  we  call 
it  an  offensive  or  a  defensive  war.  There  must 
be  a  deep  significance  in  our  sacrifice  .  .  . 
What  am  I?  My  bayonet  is  a  blade  of  grass, 
my  mind  a  seed  in  the  field.  But  if  by  adding 
my  life  to  the  millions  I  can  assist  a  natural 
terrific  manifestation  of  good,  I  must  consider 
myself  enrolled  in  an  eternal  cause. 

"You  love  me,  Natalie.  You  would  not  wish 
me  to  be  untrue  to  myself.  Tell  me,  have  I  not 
reasoned  well?  Have  I  not  conquered  my 
fear?  We  have  only  a  few  moments  more. 
Tell  me,  beloved,  am  I  deceiving  myself?  No 
.  .  .  that  cannot  be.  I  feel  so  confident.  .  .  . 
Look  at  your  Pierre — how  calm  and  confident 
he  is?  You  believe  too,  don't  you,  that  it  is 
worth  while?  I  am  not  a  mindless  atom  being 
used  for  profit?  I  am  not  defending  my  coun- 
try because  there  is  no  other  way  out  of  it?  I 
am  fighting  in  a  final  war.  Our  land  will  be 
sullied  for  the  last  time." 

They  were  face  to  face  in  a  supreme  moment 


56        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

where  the  being  wavers  on  a  perilous  edge. 
Natalie  heard  the  secret  voice  that  speaks  at 
such  moments,  saying  to  her,  "You  know  he 
has  found  what  he  wished  to  find.  He  has 
made  the  universe  speak  his  language,  that  he 
might  kill  in  peace.  But  all  this  will  go  for 
nothing,  if  you,  the  woman,  cannot  sanction 
his  great  illusion.  Words,  words!  He  needs 
a  prop." 

Then  his  voice  rang  sharply,  like  a  creature 
calling  out  in  the  darkness :  "Beloved,  answer 
me!" 

She  answered:  "You  are  justified,  Peter 
the  Knight." 

His  face  was  flooded  with  light.  His  eyes 
still  probed,  but  there  were  now  places  in  her 
heart  where  he  might  not  look.  All  had  not 
been  well  with  him.  But  she  had  given  him 
what  he  required  in  order  that  he  might  spill 
blood  or  die,  convinced  of  a  sacred  mission. 
The  facts  of  death  were  cruder  than  that. 

She  smiled  bravely,  knowing  that  she  had 
appeased  his  torment  at  cost  of  her  own  good 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        57 

faith.    For  she  did  not  believe  the  things  he 
told  her. 

Still  the  people  swarmed  up  the  hill,  gather- 
ing before  the  Buvette.  A  facile  comradeship 
linked  them.  Their  loud  voices,  interlarded 
with  jests  and  scraps  of  song,  mounted  above 
the  fretful  whine  of  children,  the  muffled  sob- 
bing of  women. 

"Who  would  have  thought  it,  old  man,  hein?" 

"We'll  get  them." 

"I  could  eat  one  or  two  for  breakfast." 

"They  would  taste  too  badly." 

"It  is  hard  on  the  women.  My  wife  cried 
like  a  little  calf  when  I  left  her." 

"Well,  you  are  lucky.  My  woman  pushed 
me  out  of  the  house  and  ordered  me  not  to  show 
my  face  until  I  won  a  medal." 

On  a  bench  at  the  entrance  of  the  Buvette, 
a  woman  crouched,  weeping  drearily.  Every 
once  in  a  while  her  grief  was  cut  by  fits  of 
hollow  coughing.  Two  bow-legged  children 


58        CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

tugged  at  her  skirts.  Her  husband,  an  anxious 
peaked-looking  little  man,  was  talking  very 
fast,  glancing  furtively  at  his  comrades. 

"Come  now,  my  girl — no  squawling!  You 
promised  me.  We  can  do  nothing  about  it." 

"What  will  become  of  us!"  moaned  the 
woman,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him. 

"Well,  well,  we'll  see." 

A  tall  fellow  strode  over  to  her  and  said 
kindly:  "Your  man  will  come  back.  Don't 
take  on  so." 

"She  is  just  out  of  the  hospital,"  explained 
the  husband  in  a  low  voice.  "We  have  a  sick 
baby  at  home.  It  is  hard."  The  two  men  stood 
staring  down  at  her  with  perplexed  faces. 

"Well,  that  is  too  bad,"  said  the  big  man 
awkwardly.  "But  the  Mayor  will  take  care  of 
her.  There  will  be  things  arranged.  .  .  ." 

A  pink-cheeked  girl  swayed  towards  him, 
offering  him  a  flower.  As  she  laughed  up  at 
him,  he  caught  her  around  the  waist  and  kissed 
her  on  the  mouth. 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         59 

The  Bourdon  family,  to  escape  the  sun,  had 
assembled  in  the  Buvette.  The  air  was  rank 
with  the  smell  of  cheap  alcohol.  Among 
wooden  tables  and  chairs  a  noisy  crowd  jos- 
tled one  another  amicably,  while  coffee,  and 
marre,  a  strong  drink  of  the  people,  were 
served. 

A  lively  little  man  who  smiled  easily,  show- 
ing bad  teeth,  stood  in  the  center  of  a  group, 
brandishing  his  glass. 

"Friends,  let  us  drink  to  France!'* 

"To  France!" 

"To  our  meeting  in  Berlin!" 

The  voices  mounted  in  jubilant  confidence, 
clamoring  victory. 

Felix  ordered  marre,  but  only  Henri, 
Pierre  and  Natalie  would  touch  it.  The  Bour- 
dons studied  Natalie  disapprovingly,  as,  with 
flushed  cheeks  and  brilliant  eyes,  she  raised  her 
glass. 

"To  your  return,  Peter." 

"To  France,"  he  replied,  emptying  his  glass 
with  a  reckless  motion.  He  had  become  sud- 


60         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

denly  animated,  as  if  contact  with  this  ebul- 
lient humanity  had  kindled  his  imagination. 
He  moved  restlessly  from  one  to  another,  join- 
ing in  the  toasts,  exchanging  opinions  with 
good-natured  fellows  who  treated  him  already 
like  an  old  friend.  Natalie  watched  him  with  a 
brooding  pity  settling  in  her  eyes.  But  he  in- 
cluded her  in  his  mood  as  if  expecting  her  to 
share  his  enthusiasm. 

"Are  they  not  wonderful?"  he  kept  exclaim- 
ing. "What  a  people!" 

The  little  room  seemed  to  contain  all  the 
emblems  of  life.  A  woman  sat  in  a  corner 
nursing  her  baby.  She  curved  over  the  child 
with  the  beautiful  unconsciousness  of  a  simple 
creature. 

"He  will  make  a  fine  soldier  some  day,"  com- 
mented a  friendly  onlooker. 

She  smiled  proudly.    "I  have  two  others." 

"Every  one  does  his  duty,"  remarked  the 
father  in  a  complacent  voice.  An  outburst  of 
crude  humor  greeted  his  statement. 

Near  by  a  young  man  and  woman  sat  locked 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         61 

in  one  another's  arms.  The  woman's  face  was 
pillowed  on  her  lover's  shoulder.  His  head 
was  bent  over  hers.  They  stayed  so,  in  rapt 
immobility,  hearing  nothing,  seeing  nothing. 

A  sullen  looking  man  stood  alone  staring 
vacantly  at  his  empty  glass.  When  he  was 
spoken  to  he  mumbled  and  shook  his  head.  His 
eyes  were  set  and  glassy,  his  cheeks  highly  col- 
ored. An  open  locket,  dangling  from  a  cheap 
watch  chain,  held  the  picture  of  a  young 
woman. 

The  train  was  late. 

As  the  moments  slid  by  an  atmosphere  of 
protracted  suspense  grew  heavier.  All  had 
been  said ;  all  had  been  done.  The  same  words 
and  gestures  had  been  used  over  and  over 
again.  There  remained  only  the  final  act  of 
parting.  These  people  moving  about  on  the 
brink  of  separation  had  been  driven  into  ex- 
pressions of  feverish  intimacy,  and  in  supreme 
eruptions  of  emotion  they  had  emptied  their 
laden  hearts. 

Monsieur  Bourdon  kept  looking  at  his  watch 


62         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

with  the  mechanical  gesture  of  a  man  awaiting 
an  event. 

Felix  was  talking  in  a  high  excited  voice, 
clasping  Pierre's  arm  as  if  arguing  matters  of 
life  and  death. 

"Nothing  doing  in  the  old  school  until  you 
come  back.  It's  going  to  be  pretty  lonely.  All 
the  fellows  are  leaving.  I  saw  Bretel  at  the 
Deux  Magots.  He's  crazy  to  be  off.  And 
Chauvin?  Poor  old  Chauvin !  Remember  how 
he  used  to  squirm  if  he  saw  a  mouse.  I  wonder 
what  he'll  do  now  .  .  .  Say,  next  year  we'll 
have  to  work  hard.  .  .  .  Here,  take  another 
cigarette — take  the  whole  package.  Go  on, 
Peter,  old  boy — I've  got  plenty.  You'll  write 
us,  won't  you?  If  there's  ever  anything  I  can 
do  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  Natalie  wished  that  Pierre  would 
go  quickly.  Her  control  was  slipping  from 
her.  The  room  grew  blurred.  She  saw,  as 
through  a  haze,  Madame  Bourdon,  Germaine 
and  Louise,  a  compact  silent  trio,  staring  at 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE         63 

her  stolidly.  She  saw  Henri  haranguing  a 
small  audience.  His  voice  rose  in  high-pitched 
vehemence.  The  pressure  of  life  in  the  low- 
ceilinged  room  was  unbearable. 

She  made  her  way  quietly  to  the  door.  The 
sun  struck  her  like  a  golden  shield.  Overhead 
a  blue  sky  spread  its  blue  napery. 

Pierre's  words  sounded  again  in  her  ears 
like  the  cry  of  a  lost  creature  in  the  night.  He 
had  asked  her:  "Is  this  the  road?"  She  had 
answered:  "Yes,  this  is  the  road."  And  the 
road  led  away  from  her.  Suppose  she  called 
him  back  now  and  said: 

"Pierre,  you  asked  me  to  help  you  deceive 
yourself,  and  I  did.  But  I  was  wrong,  because 
I  could  have  lost  you  in  this  way.  How  could 
I  know  the  truth?  How  could  I  explain  the 
folly  of  the  world  by  calling  it  wisdom?  We 
are  poor  wistful  beings  following  a  dangerous 
illusion.  You  with  the  millions  are  about  to 
demolish  what  you  have  built,  labeling  your 
deed  honor,  glory,  goodness.  Poor  little  men, 
you  have  traveled  too  far  and  not  far  enough. 


64        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

"Pierre,  why  not  kill  without  reason  then,  if 
weapons  are  put  in  your  hands?  Why  call  a 
slaughter-house  a  cathedral?  Good  and  evil 
are  eternal,  you  say;  therefore  one  can  never 
suppress  the  other.  There  are  greater  battle- 
fields than  those  drenched  with  blood,  sullied 
by  men's  trampled  brains. 

"Pierre,  I  believe  that  war  begets  war.  It 
does  not  matter  who  strikes  the  first  blow. 
Lust  and  hate  are  quickly  conceived.  The  men 
who  are  killed  will  rot  away  and  that  will 
be  an  end  to  them.  They  will  have  shown 
other  men  how  to  kill  and  die  at  a  word  from 
a  government.  Men  kill  for  the  easiest  reason, 
that  they  may  be  absolved.  They  die  to  save 
their  land,  to  save  future  generations.  But 
when  the  strong  have  perished,  the  weak  will 
survive.  Then  what  will  become  of  our  civili- 
zation? The  newly  born  will  be  children  of 
anguish,  of  hate,  of  disease.  How  can  I  tell 
you  it  is  worth  while?" 

She  would  have  cried  out  these  things  to  him, 
but  it  was  too  late.  She  could  not  alter  his 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        65 

destiny.  She  could  not  stop  his  going  any 
more  than  she  could  stop  the  mighty  machine 
set  in  motion.  Her  work  was  done. 

Then  Lorraine  was  by  her  side,  a  hand  on 
her  arm  saying,  "I  know." 

She  looked  at  her  strangely.    "You  know?" 

Lorraine's  low  passionate  voice  wakened 
echoes.  "The  world  has  gone  mad." 

The  touch  of  Pierre's  hand  on  their  shoul- 
ders linked  them. 

"Lorraine,  is  she  not  wonderful?" 

Lorraine  smiled  gently.  "She  is  all  you  have 
told  me." 

Pierre's  face  brightened  to  adoration.  "But 
you  cannot  know  how  wonderful !  You  cannot 
know  what  she  has  given  me  this  day." 

Then  the  moment  was  upon  them. 

The  tension  cracked  in  a  paroxysm  of  fare- 
wells. A  clamor  of  life  wrenched  from  life 
rose  in  mingled  sounds  of  weeping,  blessings 
and  song.  Parting,  like  a  sharp  knife,  cut, 


66        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

smote,  mangled  men  and  women,  severing  heart 
from  heart,  eye  from  eye,  hand  from  hand. 

Pierre  was  saying  the  words. 

"Good-by,  Papa!"  His  arms  were  around 
his  father's  neck.  He  kissed  him  twice. 

"Good-by,  my  son.    Do  thy  duty  I" 

"Good-by,  Maman." 

"God  bless  thee,  Pierre!" 

"Good-by,  my  little  Germaine.  Don't  cry 
your  pretty  eyes  out.  Your  Robert  will  come 
back  soon." 

"Good-by,  Henri.    Good  luck  to  you!" 

"Good-by,  Lorraine.  I  will  think  of  you 
often." 

He  was  coming  nearer.  Each  word  was  like 
a  dislodged  stone  rattling  down  a  precipice. 

"Good-by,  my  good  Felix.  Take  care  of 
her.'" 

She  stood  with  downcast  eyes  staring  at  a 
patch  of  green.  The  rumble  of  farewells  was 
about  her.  She  felt  him  coming,  and  put  out 
her  hand. 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE         67 

"Good-by,  Natalie.  I  will  not  disappoint 
you."  He  kissed  her  once. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  his  face.  There 
was  nothing  left  in  the  world  but  his  face 
shining  down  at  her.  There  were  only  his  eyes 
and  eternity.  Her  lips  moved,  framing  the 
final  word  in  a  smile. 

Pierre  was  walking  away  resolutely,  past  the 
barrier,  where  the  women  might  not  follow, 
across  the  road,  to  the  train.  The  red  and  blue 
of  his  uniform  gleamed  in  the  sun.  He  looked 
very  small  and  bright.  How  easily  the  thing 
was  done!  He  had  gone  and  nothing  could 
call  him  back. 

Felix  was  whispering,  "Buck  up,  little  com- 
rade!" 

The  ground  beneath  her  was  crumbling.  She 
would  slide  with  it  into  some  bottomless  pit 
and  lie  there  quietly  until  he  should  call  her. 

"Natalie,  Madame  Bourdon  wants  to  say 
good-by." 

How  dared  they  use  that  same  word!  She 
put  out  her  hand  as  if  she  had  learned  the  ges- 


68         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

ture  long  ago.  They  filed  before  her  one  after 
the  other.  But  she  did  not  hear  what  they 
said.  Even  Lorraine  passed  on  like  a  ghost. 

When  they  had  gone  she  looked  and  saw 
them  picking  their  way  down  the  hill.  Madame 
Bourdon  leaned  on  Monsieur  Bourdon's  arm. 
The  others  walked  close  together.  They 
seemed  to  be  turning  their  backs  on  a  finality, 
marching  gravely  away  like  people  returning 
from  church. 

Felix  took  her  arm  and  guided  her.  And 
she  stumbled  down  the  hill  among  desolate 
women  and  children. 


IV 

PIERRE  wrote: 
"Beloved,  we  are  still  waiting  orders. 
The  days  are  long  and  monotonous. 
But  there  is  not  a  moment  when  your  dear 
image  is  not  with  me  giving  me  courage.  I 
have  gone  with  you,  Natalie,  along  the  way 
that  leads  to  victory.  You  will  never  know 
what  our  last  talk  meant  to  me.  Through  you 
I  have  found  faith.  And  I  can  go  ahead  now, 
without  a  backward  look.  What  was  I  before 
this  test  of  manhood?  A  weak  creature  dream- 
ing of  accomplishment,  dreaming  of  building 
cities.  I  admit  they  were  beautiful  dreams,  and 
long  ago  they  seemed  foundation  enough  for 
my  existence.  Mutilated  dreams  now,  Na- 
talie! I  am  a  unit  of  an  army  ...  no  more, 
perhaps  less  than  the  lusty  fellow  marching  by 
my  side.  If  his  back  is  stronger  than  mine,  his 
legs  sturdier,  his  mind  less  perceptive,  then  he 

69 


70        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

is  the  stronger  soldier,  the  more  cheerful  com- 
rade.   I  envy  his  fitness  for  the  job. 

"I  do  not  know  men  yet.  They  are  not  as 
I  imagined.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  they  are 
made  of  counter  instincts,  always  battling ;  the 
creative  instinct  and  the  destructive  instinct. 
I  have  seen  eyes  blind  to  sunrise,  heavy  heels 
crunching  flowers  under  foot,  heavy  hands 
mauling  a  butterfly  for  sport.  I  have  heard 
crude  oaths  and  cruder  stories  that  soil  sacred 
things.  I  have  also  seen  these  men  tenderer 
to  one  another  than  my  mother  has  ever  been 
to  me.  I  have  seen  them  divide  their  rations 
with  a  starving  mongrel,  stoop  to  pat  a  beg- 
gar's child,  weep  over  a  letter  from  home.  Yet 
so  few  of  them  have  grasped  the  spirit  of  this 
great  crusade.  They  are  ready  enough  for 
battle,  although  they  do  not  yet  know  what 
battles  mean.  Many  of  them  are  born  war- 
riors. I  say  God  help  the  others!  Why  was 
I  not  born  a  warrior?  Then  it  would  be  simple. 
Enemies  are  easily  found.  But  when  the  day's 
discipline  is  over,  and  I  close  my  eyes,  I  never 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        71 

think  of  enemies.  I  see  the  dear  School,  and 
the  faces  of  my  comrades.  I  see  the  flowered 
balcony,  the  sloping  roofs,  the  white  breast  of 
the  Sacre  Coeur.  I  see  the  bridges  and  the 
river  and  the  little  boats.  And  I  forget  why  I 
am  here.  Then  the  breathing  of  the  men,  the 
silhouette  of  a  sentry,  the  loneliness  of  the 
night  sky,  remind  me  of  the  land  to  be  de- 
fended at  cost  of  life.  And  I  trace  over  and 
over  again  the  last  moments  with  you.  I  hear 
you  saying,  'You  are  justified.'  Write  me, 
Beloved.  Write  me  often  that  I  am  justified. 
Let  me  feel  your  hand  on  my  shoulder.  Let 
me  hear  your  voice  speaking,  as  my  own,  ex- 
plaining this  topsy-turvy  world.  You  will  not 
smile  when  I  tell  you  that  every  night  I  look 
at  the  little  gold  cross  with  the  Christ  and 
wonder  what  He  would  do  in  the  world  to- 

day " 

This  letter  and  many  others  brought  to  Na- 
talie his  urgent  need.  She  could  only  shape 
her  answers  like  so  many  staffs  upon  which  he 
might  lean.  But  she  sickened  at  what  she  was 


72        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

doing.  For  with  every  red  day  that  passed, 
she  became  more  conscious  of  the  cost  of  her 
complicity.  If  the  women  of  the  universe  could 
have  risen  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  mighty  uni- 
son opposing  the  crime,  if  the  awesome  voices 
of  mothers,  wives,  working-women  had  been 
lifted  in  a  supreme  cry  for  peace,  uncovering 
their  men's  blind  purpose,  there  would  not  now 
be  death  and  desolation  in  the  land.  What 
had  they  done?  The  unborn  might  well  weep 
in  their  foolish  mothers'  wombs,  at  prescience 
of  their  destiny.  For  such  a  war,  made  by  men 
and  upheld  by  women,  menaced  generations. 

Graves  instead  of  homes,  crepe  instead  of 
orange-blossoms,  maimed  men  instead  of  mates, 
and  devastated  countries  crushed  by  debt — all 
this  was  the  price  they  would  pay  for  their 
heroes.  The  thing  saved  would  hardly  be 
worth  the  thing  lost  forever.  Could  all  the 
willing  martyrs  and  the  nimble  fingers  and 
the  flooded  eyes  put  one  brain  back  into  its 
smashed  shell?  Could  all  the  prayers  and 
blessings  of  stoic  widows  restore  the  youth  of 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         73 

the  century,  revive  a  trampled  field,  build  up  a 
demolished  village? 

These  men  sent  out  to  kill,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  killed  in  the  name  of  women.  Such 
women  as  she,  Natalie,  were  responsible  for 
their  deeds;  in  the  intricate  workings  of  their 
minds,  they  themselves  labeled  their  killing 
with  fair  names. 

Subtly  linked  by  separate  weaknesses,  she 
and  Pierre  groped  in  a  wilderness  of  doubt,  lit 
by  the  uneasy  torch  of  her  love,  while  the  pro- 
digious madness  of  leagued  men  and  women 
shattered  the  foundations  of  society.  And  as 
an  unleashed  mass  rolled  onwards  bellowing 
God's  sanction,  it  was  met  by  unleashed  masses 
calling  their  countries'  names  and  liberty. 
Then  life  was  counted  no  more  than  a  poppy 
beneath  a  threshing  machine.  The  factories  of 
the  world  vomited  death-dealing  shells.  The 
land  became  a  trampled  hunting  ground  where 
men  and  beasts  were  merged.  Frontiers  were 
in  smoke,  villages  flamed,  churches  toppled, 
cities  were  besieged,  forests  uprooted,  harvests 


74        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

wrecked.  The  tortured  roads  were  black  with 
homeless  exiles  fleeing  from  friend  and  enemy. 
Panic  swept  broadcast  like  a  devastating  hur- 
ricane. 

Pierre  wrote: 

"Beloved,  we  may  be  called  any  moment. 
We  are  ready.  The  life  of  the  congregated 
male  is  simple.  It  has  a  bold  brave  appear- 
ance, beneath  which  lurk  all  the  human  weak- 
nesses. There  are  men  here  whom  I  pity,  be- 
cause they  have  no  loves,  no  women  to  spur 
them  on  to  victory.  When  letters  come,  they 
sit  and  mope,  eying  us  defiantly  as  if  they  did 
not  need  the  reenforcing  words.  War  is  a 
trade.  But,  I  should  say,  a  trade  not  invented 
for  imaginations  unless  plied  in  regions  of 
madness.  The  real  life  is  apart  from  the  trade. 
And  a  troubled  heart  and  a  reeling  brain 
turn  to  the  creature  best  able  to  supply  what 
strength  is  needed  at  a  crisis.  Where  should  I 
be  without  your  letters,  Natalie  ?  That  is  why 
I  beg  from  you  the  privilege  of  sharing  parts 
of  them  with  less  fortunate  comrades.  You 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         75 

know  how  sacred  they  are  to  me.  But  I  feel 
them  so  inspiring,  so  stimulating,  that  I  should 
be  a  poor  patriot  to  keep  them  for  myself  alone. 
Since  you,  a  woman  of  brains  and  heart,  judge 
with  me  that  our  armies  represent  right  over 
wrong  in  a  universal  sense,  you  render  our  job 
of  killing  and  dying  sublime.  If  I  do  my  duty, 
Beloved,  you  will  have  written  it  in  letters  of 
gold.  .  .  ." 

Then  Natalie  went  out  into  the  city  and 
hunted  for  beauty  that  she  might  send  it  to 
Pierre  and  his  fellows.  The  beauty  she  found 
in  sacrifice,  in  generosity,  in  patriotism,  was 
more  poignant  than  anything  she  had  ever 
seen.  It  was  absorbed  in  the  pitiless  moment 
as  spilt  blood  is  sucked  into  the  ground. 
The  fretting  multitudes  were  playthings  of  an 
implacable  illusion.  Their  resignation  doomed 
them.  People  of  all  classes,  jolted  from  their 
grooves,  were  struggling  through  a  process  of 
readjustment;  but  it  did  not  alter  raw  nature 
such  as  it  has  always  been  under  stress.  An- 


76        CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

guish  ennobled  or  poisoned  according  to  hidden 
traits  grown  rusty  from  disuse. 

They  huddled  together,  drawn  close  by  a 
jealous  racial  instinct  of  preservation  which 
blinded  them  to  universal  issues.  War  was 
with  them,  upon  them,  disintegrating,  intract- 
able. They  might  squirm  or  pray,  lose  bravely 
or  inveigh  against  fate;  a  national  disaster 
paralyzed  their  judgment  and  riveted  them, 
helpless  victims  of  a  stupendous  irreparable 
blunder  involving  their  country's  youth.  As 
they  proclaimed,  it  was  indeed  not  their  fault. 
The  initial  fault  was  graver  than  the  deeds  en- 
tailed, less  perishable.  For  it  was  rooted  in  the 
immeasurable  ambition  of  mankind,  and  its 
shoots,  nourished  by  unscrupulous  capital,  men- 
aced the  world.  What  could  the  peasant 
wrenched  from  his  fields,  or  the  day  laborer, 
or. the  scholar  do,  once  drawn  into  the  out-v 
spreading  tentacles  ? 

Now  the  ponderous  machine  of  relief  work 
began  to  grind  out  red  tape,  petty  officials, 
Utopians,  ambitious  organizers,  and  experi- 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         77 

mental  philanthropists.  The  remedy  for  mis- 
eries lay  pat.  Soup  kitchens  and  canteens 
sprouted  plentifully  over  the  city.  Daily  food 
and  pennies  were  doled  out  to  the  poor,  the 
sick,  the  bereaved.  Men  were  mended,  women 
and  children  were  clothed  and  fed.  What 
more  hopeful  proof  of  awakened  responsibility 
could  there  be  than  this  ready  response  to  ex- 
haustless  need? 

Natalie  was  moved  to  glowing  pride  by  the 
spontaneous  example  set  by  her  country.  A 
source  of  limitless  bounty,  it  gave  and  gave  and 
never  ceased  giving  to  an  enduring  humanity. 
The  upturned  palms  of  Europe  met  no  re- 
fusal. To  the  grateful  eye  such  prodigal  be- 
neficence, such  gracious  gestures  from  the  pa- 
cific millions,  indicated  a  marked  preference,  a 
choice  of  distress  to  be  succored. 

Natalie  found  here  a  theme  to  gladden 
Pierre's  heart.  She  wrote :  "There  is  nothing 
we  can  do  that  we  will  not  do.  If  neutrality 
means  an  uncrippled  power  of  service,  and  an 
unprejudiced  conscience,  then  it  seems  fortu- 


78        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

nate  we  still  retain  our  freedom  to  give  where 
need  is  most.  Feel  this  with  me :  the  wounded 
and  the  homeless  are  cared  for  by  devoted 
women  and  provided  for  by  the  sacrifice  of 
our  people.  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  Hands 
and  brains  are  backing  you,  my  Pierre." 

But  she  did  not  write  him  of  the  nearer  view  - 
of  charitable  institutions,  nor  of  how  consist- 
ently she  was  defeated  when  she  looked  for 
beauty  through  a  crimson  lens. 

There  were  moldy  labyrinths  in  the  city  be- 
neath the  fair  Christian  show.  And  in  these 
murky  corridors  sneaked  ugly  things  like  rats, 
nosing  for  spoils.  The  festering  envy  and 
ambition  of  little  politicians,  scheming  great 
ladies,  smug  financiers  and  sentimental  old 
maids  and  virgins  scuttled  from  dark  shadow 
to  shadow,  nibbling  at  foundations.  Now  and 
then  an  edifice  built  for  the  salvation  of  man 
would  crack  and,  through  the  yawning  wound, 
betray  the  noisome  habitants  of  these  dark 
places  at  their  furtive  work.  But  as  quickly 
covered,  hungry  men  and  women  would  tread 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         79 

again  the  mended  spot,  judging  themselves  se- 
cure because  they  were  benefactors  or  victims 
of  a  social  system.  And  prowling  through  the 
city  on  padded  claws  went  other  man-made 
things :  suspicion  that  sniffed  out  innocent  citi- 
zens and  made  criminals  of  them  to  satisfy  a 
doubt,  denunciations  of  an  anonymous  breed 
that  stained  the  undesirable  stranger  within  the 
gates,  intrigue  that  tangled  motives  into  webs 
and  caught  the  unwary  humanitarian,  lies, 
ruthlessly  wielded  power,  misspent  coins,  sly 
plots  among  sly  women  and  discontent  that 
gnawed  at  the  vitals  of  charity.  Passions  and 
emotions  were  magnified.  The  noblest  and 
the  basest  human  beings  worked  side  by  side 
with  separate  vision,  to  regenerate,  mend,  sat- 
isfy, a  scarred,  sad  world. 

Meanwhile  the  hostile  forces  crossed  a 
forbidden  border,  hurtled  against  fortresses, 
grabbed  cities,  wrecked,  ravaged,  tore  a  little 
country  to  shreds,  and  plunged  on  their  re- 
lentless way  into  France.  The  thunder  of  guns 


80         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

from  Mulhouse  to  Liege  sounded  in  dreadful 
monotony. 

Cruel  birds,  harbingers  of  invasion,  circled 
over  the  city,  casting  messages  of  death.  But 
they  were  mocked  at  by  a  spirited  population 
who  flocked  to  the  public  squares  and  high- 
ways, there  with  uplifted  noses  and  taunting 
fists  to  fling  their  defiance  skywards.  The 
enemy  offered  them  a  spectacle  worth  hooting 
at.  Women  who  had  seen  their  men  go,  wel- 
comed fiercely  the  fleeting  glimpse  of  danger 
which  seemed  to  link  them  with  the  fighting 
millions.  The  city  was  so  immense  and  vital; 
the  war  birds  were  no  more  than  impotent  vul- 
tures. 

And  again  Natalie  wrote :  "The  courage  of 
the  people — your  people,  Pierre — is  beautiful. 
No  gunners  at  their  posts  can  rival  the  little 
trades-people  guarding  their  business,  the  stoic 
active  women,  the  patient  old  men  who  cling  to 
life  waiting  the  victory.  And  I  could  tell  you 
also  about  the  street  urchins  whose  sharp 
tongues  aim  as  straight  as  a  bullet.  Yesterday 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         81 

afternoon,  when  our  usual  visitor  was  flying 
overhead,  and  the  usual  bombs  mussed  up  a 
house  or  two,  a  funeral  passed.  The  ragged 
lively  boy  standing  near  me  cocked  a  knowing 
eye  and  exclaimed,  'There  goes  one  who  has 
no  curiosity!'  He  hit  the  keynote.  Call  it 
curiosity  or  courage,  there  are  no  signs  of  fear 
among  the  people.  They  wear  their  mourning 
like  a  symbol  of  hope." 

But  as  she  wrote  her  heart  was  sad  and  bitter. 
She  wondered  why  the  staunch  stuff  that  was 
in  these  people  must  be  shaped  into  garlands 
for  graves  and  images  of  hate.  Sprung  from 
a  Revolution  and  Napoleonic  wars,  their  spirit 
might  well  have  led  them  through  brilliant  gen- 
erations to  bloodless  victories  in  art,  science, 
industry.  The  mischief  was  farther  back  than 
the  present  evil.  A  race  attacked  centers  upon 
itself,  suspecting  treachery  in  every  stranger's 
smile,  barring  jealously  its  schools  and  com- 
merce from  the  divined  enemy  of  to-morrow. 
Hereditary  hate  engenders  distrust,  shapes 
future  wars.  War  breeds  covetousness.  It  is 


82         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

like  a  fence  between  a  hungry  man's  spring 
and  a  thirsty  man's  vegetable  garden.  The 
hungry  man  may  not  satisfy  his  appetite 
though  his  neighbor's  vegetables  are  near,  nor 
may  the  thirsty  man  drink  at  his  neighbor's 
spring.  And  so  they  glare  across  the  fence, 
plotting  stealthily  to  acquire  by  force  a  portion 
of  earth's  bounty  denied  them.  It  soon  be- 
comes matter  for  a  quarrel.  One  vegetable  or 
a  cupful  of  water  does  not  suffice.  Each  de- 
sires to  keep  what  he  has,  adding  to  it  his 
neighbor's  bit. 

Grim  news  reached  the  city. 

Natalie  saw  another  exodus,  less  affecting 
than  the  first.  She  saw  hysterical  women 
crowding  to  the  banks  and  clamoring  for  gold ; 
she  saw  embassies  besieged  by  assertive  pa- 
triots scrambling  for  passports.  The  bright- 
plumaged  birds  whose  chiffons  bore  the  marks 
of  French  artists,  whose  manners  and  preten- 
sions glittered  with  cosmopolitan  veneer,  whose 
social  ambitions  thrived  best  on  foreign  soil, 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE         83 

deserted  the  menaced  city  in  jabbering  dis- 
array. Trains  and  boats  were  loaded  with  their 
lamentations.  More  comprehensible  were  the 
mothers  and  invalids  who  sought  to  remove 
their  children  and  their  ailments  from  the  range 
of  guns. 

But  there  were  others  who  remained  and 
went  about  their  business  of  relieving  miseries, 
for  which  Natalie  gave  them  great  credit ;  more 
so  as  in  the  end,  unless  they  were  very  wealthy 
or  very  clever,  they  encountered  an  amount  of 
ingratitude  proportionate  to  their  good  will. 
The  consciousness,  however,  of  realizing  a  part 
in  the  humanitarian  drama  compensated  those 
idealists  whose  contact  with  co-workers  proved 
a  disillusioning  experiment.  Natalie  on  her 
quest  for  beauty  found  an  expensive  imitation 
of  it  in  conspicuous  places  and  a  comforting 
measure  of  it  among  the  untempted  humble 
classes.  She  pitied  them  all,  rich  and  poor,  for 
their  blind  obedience  to  a  century's  folly.  But 
this  she  could  not  write  to  Pierre. 


84        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

One  day  she  and  Felix  received  a  visit  of  a 
young  American  journalist,  Maxwell  Clark, 
whose  appearance  she  greeted  with  wistful  ex- 
pectancy. Surely  this  man  of  facts  would  have 
weighed  questions  of  loss  and  gain,  and  would 
become  to  her  a  spokesman  of  her  inner  rebel- 
lion. Natalie  reflected,  with  a  wry  conscious- 
ness of  irony,  that  she  looked  to  this  casual 
acquaintance  for  moral  support  in  her  brain's 
torment,  exactly  as  Pierre  had  turned  to  her, 
placing  his  conscience  in  her  keep. 

Maxwell  Clark  was  a  keen  wiry  young  man 
loaded  with  enthusiasms.  He  had  rushed 
through  war  zones,  noting  accurately  the  im- 
pressions which  were  to  be  presented  in  influ- 
ential sheets  as  summaries  of  the  European 
situation.  A  valuable  guest  and  mouthpiece, 
he  had  been  handed  preciously  along  the  Ger- 
man lines,  and  later,  escaping  from  Teutonic 
courtesy,  had  transferred  himself  and  his  pro- 
Ally  sympathies  to  the  French  and  Belgian 
front. 

He  began  in  the  usual  way,  by  proclaiming 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         85 

a  civilized  distaste  for  war ;  then  launched  into 
a  panegyric  of  it,  using  such  glib  sophisms  as 
were  best  calculated  to  enliven  his  imagination 
and  enhance  his  manhood.  Thrilled  by  the 
dashing  spectacle,  fed  on  tales  of  heroism,  he 
had  risen  to  the  bait.  Still  warm  with  the  hos- 
pitality of  fine  men,  intoxicated  by  the  racket 
of  death,  swayed  subtly  by  the  show  of  medals 
and  uniforms,  he  discoursed  fluently  upon 
democracy  in  the  trenches,  awakened  virility, 
healthful  occupations,  brotherly  sacrifice,  cour- 
age rewarded,  sport,  glory,  patriotism.  And 
he  ended  with  a  superb  gesture  which  swept  his 
countrymen  into  the  field,  claiming  in  sonorous 
words  their  fraternal  duty  to  the  Allies. 

Felix  puffed  wisely  at  his  pipe,  meditating 
upon  these  things.  But  Natalie,  whose  expres- 
sion had  altered  from  its  first  eagerness  to 
sharp  disappointment,  flung  tartly  at  the 
young  journalist: 

"Why  then  don't  you  enlist  right  away?  I 
hear  the  Foreign  Legion  is  an  excellent  death 
trap  for  criminals  and  neutrals."  Felix  low- 


86         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

ered  his  pipe  and  glanced  at  her  with  lifted 
brows. 

But  Maxwell  Clark,  his  fluency  stemmed, 
murmured  uneasily  "I  ...  I  have  my  work." 

"So  had  they!"  She  rose  abruptly  and 
loomed  above  him  with  stern  young  face  and 
darkened  eyes.  Then  the  floodgates  swung 
aside  and  gathered  pain  rushed  out. 

"So  had  every  man  in  every  warring  country 
to-day !  Beginning  with  the  pretext  of  a  mur- 
dered tyrant  and  ending  in  a  world's  war — a 
pretty  job  they've  made  of  it!  They've  given 
fine  words  as  sops,  and  when  it  was  too 
late  for  dozing  diplomats  to  mend  the  mess, 
they  trumpeted  a  nation's  danger.  The  thing 
was  done  when  the  first  fools  took  up  their 
guns  and  left  their  homes.  France  had  to  go. 
Of  course  she  had  to  go  when  governments  de- 
creed the  killing!" 

Her  voice  trembled  upwards.  "And  you, 
what  do  you  know  of  it  all?  They've 
shown  you  what  they  wanted  to.  You'll  write 
well -of  democracies  and  sacrifice.  But  it's  a 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE        87 

pity  you  can't  give  your  readers  a  taste  of  shell. 
We  free  people  over  there" — her  arm  swung 
eloquently  in  a  direction — "we  free  people, 
young,  naive,  quixotic,  will  listen  gladly  to 
the  brave  bright  stories.  Just  as  small  boys 
absorbing  dime  novels  dream  of  imitating  their 
hero's  exploits,  knight  or  bandit,  so  the  Ameri- 
can people  will  soon  be  dreaming  of  trumpets 
and  uniforms — and  glory — dreaming  of  pro- 
tecting their  great  nation  from  a  problematic 
invader,  filling  their  minds  with  military  bra- 
vado and  their  hearts  with  romantic  notions, 
while  the  government  to  please  them  taxes  and 
taxes.  ...  I  Then  some  day  they  will  be 
caught.  Oh,  you — all  of  you  who  can  reach 
them — why  not  tell  them  the  truth  before  it  is 
too  late  ?  Why  not  draw  aside  the  beloved  flag 
that  hides  dead  sons  and  lovers  and  let  the 
women  and  the  workers  see  a  real  battlefield, 
read  deep  in  the  souls  of  men  who  kill?" 

"She's  right!"  escaped  from  Felix.  But 
Natalie  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  staring  be- 
yond the  two  men,  out  at  the  warm  sky.  She 


88         CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

was  listening  to  the  distant  thunder,  to  the 
moaning  of  many  women,  and  the  hoarse  cry  of 
the  wounded. 

"Why  not  tell  our  people  of  the  men  cooped 
in  the  trenches  through  days  of  sweltering  heat 
.  .  .  soon  through  days  of  cold  and  driving 
rains  ...  to  be  trapped  like  dumb  animals, 
murdered  by  an  unseen  enemy?  Our  scientists 
have  thoughtfully  provided  long-range  guns, 
no  doubt  to  spare  the  feelings  of  the  enemy." 
Her  laugh  was  mirthless.  "The  democracy  of 
the  trenches  ?  A  democracy  of  prisoners !  Let 
one  of  those  democrats  say  to  his  officer,  'I've 
got  a  sick  wife  and  children  at  home.  I  need 
to  earn  their  bread.  I  must  go  back!'  A 
handy  wall  and  a  bullet  would  be  his  answer. 
Sport?  Football  or  elephants  could  supply 
that  need.  Why  not  tell  our  people  that  the 
men  are  filled  with  rum  and  ether  before  the 
bayonet  charges?  .  .  .  filled  with  madness  to 
make  the  killing  easier!  It  is  comforting  to 
know  that  noble  work  is  accomplished  under 
such  influence !  Why  not  tell  our  people  of  the 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         89 

disease  that  hides  its  ugly  face  behind  the  paid 
woman's  smile;  such  few  women  as  are  smug- 
gled inside  the  lines  where  wives  may  not  go,  to 
appease  a  lusting  regiment?  Why  not  tell 
them  of  the  men  who,  with  dreadful  bodies  torn 
apart,  lie  rotting  between  friend  and  enemy 
unrescued  even  in  their  final  agony?  Why  not 
tell  them  of  putrid  gases  that  decay  lungs,  of 
maimed  men,  blind  men,  the  wreckage  of  bat- 
tles? Let  our  people  see  and  hear  the  horror 
and  then  judge  if  any  cause  is  worth  the  thing 
called  war!  Defended  land?  Look  at  it! 
Honor?  What  of  the  fatherless  offspring  and 
the  heart-broken  women?  Glory?  A  tattered 
uniform  spotted  with  a  fellow's  blood.  Pa- 
triotism? A  country  crippled  by  debts." 

Natalie   paused   for   breath  and   Maxwell 
Clark  edged  in  a  faint  remonstrance: 
"I  thought  you  loved  France?" 
Her  passion  mounted  to  its  climax: 
"Love  France?    I  love  every  stone  in  this 
city!    I  love  every  blade  of  grass  in  the  land! 
I  love  every  little  poilu  in  red  and  blue!    But 


90        CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

do  you  ask  me  because  of  my  love  to  acclaim  a 
calamity  which  reaches  beyond  frontiers  and 
includes  the  world  ?  For  what  they  are  beneath 
their  petty  faults,  I  love  the  brave  sweet  heart 
of  this  race.  Their  language  is  music  to  me. 
I  love  the  peasant  and  the  woman  who  wheels 
the  flower  cart  and  the  honest  fellow  in  cordu- 
roys. Of  all  the  armies  out  to-day,  the  French 
army  is  most  beloved.  Their  spirit  is  indomi- 
table. But  all  women  weep  the  same  tears,  and 
the  graves  are  shaped  alike  in  every  country. 
It's  war  I  hate  .  .  .  stupid,  sordid  war.  How 
can  I  know  who  will  be  the  next  enemy,  while 
there  are  armies  and  world  markets?  The 
blood  lust  and  greed  is  in  them  all  now.  They 
prate  of  a  last  war  and  give  their  children  uni- 
forms, tin  soldiers,  toy  swords.  They  speak  of 
an  eventual  peace  and  teach  their  children  ven- 
geance. They  prattle  of  more  armies — ever 
more,  more  battleships,  more  bombs.  What 
will  all  these  things  be  doing  then  when  war  is 
at  an  end  ?  Shall  the  people  be  supporting  idle 
forces  ?  What  of  the  people  ?  May  they  never 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE        91 

learn  their  trades  with  any  feeling  of  security? 
Must  mothers  bear  sons  to  offer  up  to  future 
enemies?  I  hate  it!  I  hate  it  all!"  She  sank 
shuddering  in  a  chair,  her  passion  spent. 

Silence  hung  between  them  until  Felix  said 
gently,  "I  didn't  know  you  had  it  in  you." 

The  comment  roused  in  her  a  sense  of  self- 
betrayal.  She  had  voiced  those  hidden  things 
which  even  Felix  should  not  hear  because  of 
Pierre. 

Maxwell  Clark,  released  from  hypnotized 
attention,  gave  a  low  whistle.  "As  you  de- 
scribe it,  it  isn't  pretty." 

She  managed  a  wan  smile.  "You  must  for- 
give me.  I  forgot  myself." 

Visibly  impressed,  the  American  attempted 
compliments  upon  her  eloquence.  But  Felix, 
perhaps  to  change  the  subject,  burst  out,  "The 
whole  thing  is  a  damn  shame !  We  have  a  dear 
friend  who's  fighting  now.  Natalie  and  I 
worry  a  lot  about  him." 

"I  see,"  murmured  Clark. 

"He's  .  .  .  he's  an  awfully  clever  chap," 


92        CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

continued  Felix.  "Studied  with  me  in  the 
Beaux  Arts.  He  and  I  were  great  pals."  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  put  a  hand  on  Natalie's 
shoulder.  "She  can  tell  you.  Why,  as  far  as 
that  goes,  Natalie's  the  one  to  keep  up  his 
spirits."  She  felt  the  journalist's  keen  eyes 
upon  her  as  Felix  blundered  on.  "She's  always 
writing  him  how  wonderful  the  people  are  .  .  . 
and  how  worth  while  it  is  to  fight  for  his  coun- 
try. In  his  last  letter  he  speaks  of  how  beau- 
tiful her  letters  are,  how  he  couldn't  do  without 
them."  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket.  "Thought 
I  had  it  here.  I  guess  for  all  she  says  she  be- 
lieves in  a  man  doing  his  duty.  Don't  you,  old 
girl?" 

"Of  course  she  does!  We  all  do!"  cried 
Maxwell  Clark  heartily,  sparing  her  an  answer. 

But  when  after  other  efforts  at  conversation, 
which  she  discouraged,  he  took  his  leave  as  ex- 
uberantly as  he  had  come,  Felix  went  up  to  her. 

"You  never  told  me  you  felt  that  way,  little 
comrade,"  he  said.  "If  you  do,  really  .  .  . 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE         93 

how  can  you  ...  ?"  His  anxious  look  finished 
the  question. 

"How  can  I  what?"  Her  smile  was  baffling. 

"How  can  you  give  Pierre  so  much?"  he 
ended  lamely. 

"I  give  him  what  is  in  my  heart."  She  could 
not  tell  Felix  at  what  cost  she  played  her  role. 
The  thin  barrier  of  withheld  confidence  sepa- 
rated them.  His  honest  face  showed  per- 
plexity. 

"You're  a  strange  kid,  Natalie,"  he  said  at 
last.  "You  got  me  going  the  way  you  talked. 
And  yet  you  write  such  different  things  to  dear 
old  Pierre.  What  would  he  have  said  if  he 
had  heard  you?" 

"He  never  will,"  Natalie  answered  drearily. 


THE  women  knitted. 
They  knitted  like  Destinies  bending 
fatefully  over  their  everlasting  skeins. 
Their  hands  were  never  still:  the  coarsened 
fingers  of  toil,  the  exquisite  fingers  of  fashion 
handled  wool  of  many  colors  as  if  it  were  their 
final  task  on  earth.  In  the  great  homes,  in  the 
stifled  places  of  the  poor,  in  theaters  and  shops, 
gardens  and  streets,  women  of  all  classes  knit- 
ted, chattering  of  their  absent  heroes,  boasting 
in  watchful  rivalry  of  the  wounded  and  the 
dead,  trading  exploits  that  warranted  their  re- 
lationship to  the  defenders  of  France.  They 
had  achieved  a  cult  which  permitted,  in  noblest 
form,  the  expression  of  lives  stunted  or  en- 
vious, yearning  or  vain,  passionate,  sentimental 
or  fanatical.  Their  men,  who  only  a  short 
while  ago  were  perfect  or  faulty  sons  or  mates, 
had  with  one  sublime  gesture  of  parting  be- 

94 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE        95 

come  mysterious  factors  in  a  mighty  struggle. 
The  man  and  the  rascal  shared  the  same  super- 
human virtues.  In  the  armies  they  were  mere 
units;  in  the  hearts  of  the  tragic,  rapturous 
women  they  were  the  determining  elements  of 
victory.  Had  they  beaten  their  wives  in  peace 
times,  they  were  now  beating  an  enemy;  had 
they  loved  indiscriminately,  they  were  now 
vowed  to  one  cause;  had  they  shirked  their 
duties  as  citizens,  they  were  now  accomplishing 
a  supreme  duty. 

The  women  knitted.  And  the  clicking  of 
needles  was  a  multitude  of  little  tongues  telling 
tales.  They  told  of  the  mothers  who  dreamed 
about  cradle  days  when  the  new  male  in  their 
arms  was  a  godly  specimen,  fortunate  in  pros- 
pects; dreamed  about  the  uneasy  boyhood, 
where  the  shaping  spirit  wanders  on  forbidden 
ground;  dreamed  of  the  youth  thriven  in  spite 
of  hardships  or  indulgence,  snatched  now  from 
fruitful  occupations  and  taught  a  warrior's 
trade;  dreamed  of  the  blighted  being  which 
might  come  limping,  groping  home  to  live  on 


96        CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

charity,  another  stone  about  the  nation's  neck. 
There  was  a  reward,  as  rewards  go.  The  grati- 
tude of  a  nation  for  a  spent  life  remains  an 
inheritance,  mortgaged  perhaps,  but  neverthe- 
less to  be  jealously  guarded  for  the  future.  If 
such  gratitude  does  not  ensure  the  safety  of 
generations  to  come  at  least  it  provides  graves, 
medals  and  archives  in  tribute  to  the  beloved 
dust. 

The  song  of  the  needles  told  of  women: 
women  who  knitted  because  of  housewifely 
habit  or  economy,  as  once  they  had  mended; 
women  who,  consumed  by  tardy  romance,  re- 
gretted bitterly  their  past  unimaginative  do- 
mesticity, imaging  their  men  as  misunderstood 
potential  lovers;  women  who,  helpless  in  their 
unsolicited  independence,  prayed  for  the  return 
of  the  master ;  women  who,  enchanted  with  an 
unaccustomed  freedom,  discovering  latent 
natures  and  brains,  prepared  future  problems 
for  their  unsuspecting  mates;  women  whose 
sentimental  craving,  hitherto  unsatisfied,  found 
passionate  outlet  in  mothering  armies. 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE        97 

The  House  of  the  Bourdons  gave  all  it  had 
to  give. 

Grandmother  Bourdon,  huddled  in  her  arm- 
chair, fumbled  with  wool  and  needles.  But  her 
palsied  fingers  refused  the  task.  Only  the  old 
eyes  behind  the  spectacles  retained  sparks  of 
will.  She  babbled  weakly  of  the  '70s,  reiterat- 
ing forgotten  tales  of  heroism.  Her  memory 
wandered  in  rusty  battlefields,  evoking  ghosts. 
Her  quavering  voice  mounted  in  a  tremolo  of 
hate,  cursing  the  enemy.  She  saw  her  husband 
at  the  head  of  his  troops  urging  them  on  to  vic- 
tory. She  heard  the  martial  sounds  of  long 
ago.  And  she  was  never  quiet  except  when  her 
tired  head  on  its  wizened  stem  sank  forward  in 
fitful  doze  over  the  unfinished  work. 

Louise  Bourdon  stayed  in  her  bed  and  knit- 
ted, with  a  querulous  eye  upon  her  children. 
She  worried  when  they  were  out  of  her  sight; 
she  worried  when  they  were  with  her. 

"Wait  until  your  father  gets  back,"  was  the 
constant  refrain.  A  big  black  crucifix  on  the 
wall  reminded  her  of  Christian  resignation  and 


98        CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

other  precepts  borrowed  from  divine  philos- 
ophy. But  she  croaked  constantly  of  lugubri- 
ous possibilities,  vowing  to  follow  Raymond, 
her  husband,  to  the  grave  should  he  be  sent 
there.  The  fate  of  other  men  affected  her  su- 
perficially. She  mourned  them  with  trite 
phrases  unwatered  by  tears. 

Germaine  Bourdon  knitted  pink  and  white 
articles  for  her  Robert,  inwardly  moved  by  the 
intimacy  she  imagined  involved  in  such  service. 
Her  handiwork  was  for  the  male,  her  future 
husband.  She  worshiped  him  inarticulately. 
He  was  like  no  other  man.  He  symbolized 
France,  the  armies,  victory.  Her  little  room 
was  a  shrine  where  on  the  table  near  the  bed 
stood  his  photograph  draped  with  a  small  flag 
and  flanked  by  two  narrow-throated  vases  al- 
ways freshly  filled.  His  letters,  tied  in  tricol- 
ored  ribbons,  were  laid  in  a  satin  box.  At  night 
she  knelt  by  her  immaculate  bed  and  prayed 
candidly  to  the  Virgin  that  her  lover  might  be 
guarded  from  harm.  But  her  romance  lent  to 
the  war  a  roseate  glamor.  She  had  never  seen 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE        99 

death.  And  she  thought  that  lovers  were  in- 
vulnerable. Her  dreams,  untroubled  by  grim 
visions,  brought  Robert  to  her,  brave  in  a  spot- 
less uniform,  his  clean  sword  uplifted,  gleam- 
ing in  the  sun. 

Madame  Jean  Bourdon  knitted  for  two  of 
her  sons  and  for  those  other  sons  of  France 
who  were  without  mothers.  She  visited  the 
poor  and  the  sick  of  the  quarter,  and  helped 
the  wives  of  those  who  had  left  the  factory  at 
the  first  call.  She  was  never  still.  With 
whitening  hair  and  tightened  lips  she  went 
methodically  about  her  business,  accepting  the 
responsibilities  her  country  had  put  upon  her. 
Once  a  day  she  sought  the  church  as  a  haven, 
and  in  the  calm  gray  place  among  black  kneel- 
ing women  prayed  that  her  sons  do  their  duty. 
Inflexible  pride  dwelt  in  her  heart.  She  had 
given  three  men  to  France.  She  blessed  them 
from  afar  but  never  wished  them  back.  She 
held  her  head  erect  and  when  she  talked  to 
other  women,  she  spoke  of  her  sons  as  gifts. 

The  little  trades-people  knew  and  respected 


100      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

her,  united  by  a  bond  that  loosened  their 
tongues.  The  unique  topic  held  them  all: 

"Have  you  any  news  to-day,  Madame  Bour- 
don?" 

"Thank  you,  a  letter  from  Pierre  and  one 
from  Raymond,  my  eldest  son,  who  by  the  way 
is  doing  finely.  His  Colonel  congratulated 
him  last  week  on  his  valiant  conduct.  He  and 
four  other  men  met  an  advance  guard  of 
Uhlans  and  drove  them  off,  though  they  were 
outnumbered,  killing  three  who  it  seems  tried 
to  hide  in  a  wood.  You  can  imagine  how 
proud  I  was  .  .  .  And  your  son?" 

"Jacques  is  always  the  same.  He  writes 
only  of  victory.  He  says  the  men  are  mad  to 
get  at  the  brutes.  They  will  be  well  served,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"Ah,  yes!  My  second  son  Henri  tells  me 
that  there  will  be  nothing  left  of  them.  When 
I  think  what  they  have  done  to  us!  ...  One 
cannot  have  mercy  with  such  people  .  .  . 
Well,  we  have  learned  our  lesson." 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       101 

"That  we  have,  Madame  Bourdon.  But  if 
we  had  only  known  .  .  .  the  monsters!" 

"We  can  have  no  peace  until  we  beat  them." 

"When  will  that  be?" 

"Soon,  soon,  Madame.  With  such  sons  as 
ours  ...  !" 

"Sometimes  I  feel  it  is  hard,  Madame  Bour- 
don. Jacques  is  my  only  one.  His  father  is 
dead.  The  business  is  hard.  ...  I  depend  on 
him." 

"Come,  come,  Madame,  you  must  not  cry. 
If  he  is  taken,  it  will  be  in  a  fine  cause.  And 
there  will  be  no  more  wars." 

"God  hear  you,  Madame  Bourdon!  Well, 
what  is  must  be." 

So  with  raised  solemn  voices  the  poor  moth- 
ers settled  a  world's  destiny,  consecrating  their 
sons  to  death  in  order  that  there  might  be  no 
future  wars. 

Meanwhile  Jean  Bourdon,  whose  ruddy  face 
showed  signs  of  strain,  yearned  in  silence  for 
Raymond,  his  eldest  son  and  partner.  He  had 
not  only  given  his  sons  to  France ;  he  was  likely 


102       CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

enough  to  give  his  snug  fortune.  Only  a  mir- 
acle could  save  his  factories  in  the  North; 
Judging  from  rapid  tragic  events  such  a  mir- 
acle would  not  happen.  His  factory  in  the  city 
was  temporarily  closed.  The  economies  of 
years  upon  which  he  had  based  his  social  status, 
his  family's  prosperity,  a  comfortable  old  age, 
must  soon  be  utilized  to  tide  over  the  crisis. 
The  principles  of  a  thrifty  life  yielded  beneath 
the  pressure  of  national  disaster.  But  Jean 
Bourdon  fretted  as  if  a  vital  organ  had  been 
attacked.  For  though  the  Bourdon  family 
were  sharing  a  common  peril,  according  to 
bourgeois  precepts  they  might  not  reveal  weak 
spots  in  their  stronghold.  Whatever  anxiety 
they  endured  must  remain  within  the  enclosed 
circle. 

Madame  Bourdon,  with  years  of  practical 
experience  behind  her,  managed  the  affairs  of 
the  household  expertly,  resorting  to  ingenious 
devices  to  keep  up  appearances  without  wast- 
ing a  penny.  At  all  costs  the  children's  dowry 
must  be  saved.  She  did  not  forget  that  the 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       103 

de  Gencys  had  shrewdly  bargained  for  Ger- 
maine's  marriage  portion;  and  her  pride  for- 
bade her  failing  an  arrangement  made  before 
the  war.  When  the  time  should  come  their 
petty  title  must  be  paid  for  according  to  its 
value,  in  order  that  the  race  of  the  de  Gencys 
allied  to  the  Bourdon's  money  should  flourish 
and  prosper. 

Two  maids  were  dismissed  and  Germaine 
and  Lorraine  set  to  work  with  good  will  mend- 
ing, cleaning,  and  attending  to  Grandmother 
Bourdon,  Louise  and  the  children.  When  the 
family  assembled  for  meals,  each  was  conscious 
of  the  advisability  of  a  moderate  appetite.  The 
best  morsels  went  to  Grandmother  Bourdon, 
who  ate  greedily,  and  to  Jean  Bourdon,  the 
head  of  the  family.  Lorraine  was  always 
served  last.  But  Lorraine,  paler,  more  reticent 
than  ever,  hardly  touched  her  food.  She  seemed 
consumed  by  some  inner  torment  that  dulled 
her  eyes  and  veiled  her  voice.  Often  when 
Germaine  spoke  of  Robert  de  Gency,  she 
looked  at  the  young  girl  wistfully,  as  if  the 


104       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

naive  romance  resolved  some  hidden  chord  in 
her  heart.    But  she  said  nothing. 

During  these  meals,  while  Madame  Bour- 
don supervised  the  plentifully  watered  wine 
and  the  jealously  measured  portions,  they  tried 
to  forget  the  gaps  in  the  round  table,  dis- 
sembling the  ever  present  ache  and  fear.  Then 
Monsieur  Bourdon  talked  of  his  sons.  His 
voice  recovered  its  resonance  and  boomed  the 
exhaustless  theme.  The  red  ribbon  marked  his 
rounded  chest,  a  pompous  reminder  of  a  debt. 
As  he  talked  of  Raymond's  last  exploit,  of 
Henri's  reckless  courage,  of  Pierre's  gentle 
spirit,  it  was  as  if  the  voice  of  France  rang 
through  the  room.  It  was  the  voice  of  sacri- 
fice issuing  from  the  hearth  where  lay  smol- 
dering ashes  of  past  hate.  It  was  France  and 
only  France  living  in  the  Bourdon  hearts.  The 
Belgians  and  the  English  and  the  Russians 
were  but  the  mighty  chorus  to  the  Marseillaise. 
There  was  a  sublime  and  tragic  intention  in  the 
chant  of  war  that  mounted  from  the  Bourdon 
throats,  a  concentrated  essence  of  defiance  that 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       105 

included  superbly  international  issues  in  this 
one  dramatic  struggle  for  life.  As  the  invaders 
thundered  past  rivers  and  plains  intoning  the 
"Wacht  am  Rhein,"  Jean  Bourdon's  voice 
boomed  louder  in  challenge,  "Vive  la  France!" 

His  factories  in  the  North  were  doomed. 
The  menace  was  tightening  about  the  city.  But 
when  Madame  Bourdon  suggested  sending  the 
Grandmother,  Louise  and  the  children  to  a 
place  of  safety,  Jean  Bourdon  roared: 

"Never!  We  all  stay  in  our  home,  no  matter 
what  happens.  The  Bourdons  do  not  run 
away.  But  I  tell  you  they  will  never  get  here 
unless  it  be  over  the  bodies  of  every  man  in 
France." 

And  Madame  Bourdon,  looking  at  his  crim- 
son face,  his  blazing  eyes,  his  clenched  fists, 
bowed  her  head,  saying: 

"We  will  all  stay  then,"  and  went  to  the 
church  to  pray  that  her  sons  do  their  duty. 


VI 

LORRAINE  condemned  herself  for 
loving  the  Polish  sculptor. 
Once  at  her  timid  question  he  had 
answered  in  a  harsh,  wild  voice,  "Why  should 
I  die  for  them?  What  have  they  done  for 
me?"  and  he  had  stared  at  her  with  the  look 
of  his  suppressed  race,  distrusting  the  con- 
queror whoever  he  be.  Then  he  had  gone  on 
his  knees,  lifting  his  head  with  its  red  beard 
and  mystic  eyes,  and — like  a  little  child  re- 
peating a  sad  story — had  told  her  of  the  silent 
peasants,  his  father  and  mother,  of  his  exile, 
the  biting  poverty  in  a  strange  country,  of  his 
love  of  God  and  all  beautiful  things,  and  of 
the  arid  loneliness  until  she  had  come  to  find 
him.  And  she  in  turn  had  told  him  of  her  sad- 
dened girlhood,  her  barren  life  with  Raoul 
Bourdon,  his  death  and  her  present  existence 
marked  with  the  Bourdon  seal.  They  had  wept 

106 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       107 

together  that  day,  like  two  poor  creatures  in- 
extricably tangled  in  a  pitiless  system. 

Then  she  had  gone  back  from  the  shabby 
studio  through  the  hushed  city  where  the 
shadow  of  loss  lengthened  already  across  the 
thresholds :  back  to  the  House  of  the  Bourdons 
where  the  women  knitted  and  talked  of  their 
absent  men.  And  she  was  ashamed.  For  it 
was  as  if  she  had  introduced  a  furtive  enemy 
into  the  house.  She  saw  Raoul  Bourdon's  gray 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  in  cold  rebuke.  When  the 
land  reeked  of  blood  and  the  awful  voices  of  the 
women  cried  vengeance  for  the  martyred  youth, 
how  dared  she  cherish  a  male  being,  an  alien, 
who  preferred  cutting  stone  to  cutting  down 
the  invader?  What  right  had  the  puny  brain 
to  conceive  beauty  in  the  face  of  ordained  de- 
struction? 

She  thought  of  gentle  Pierre  marching  for- 
ward over  crimson  fields,  and  of  Natalie,  who 
had  sent  him  out  with  a  smile  on  her  lips.  She 
remembered  that  Pierre  had  said  at  the  part- 
ing, "You  cannot  know  what  she  has  given  me 


108       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

this  day,"  and  she  envied  Natalie  fiercely  for 
that  which  she  had  been  able  to  give  her  soldier 
lover.  But  Lorraine  could  not  wrench  from 
her  heart  her  love  for  the  artist.  She  yearned 
to  go  to  him,  to  place  herself  by  his  side,  bear- 
ing all  ills  for  his  sake.  He  did  not  belong  in 
this  day  of  violence.  Yet  he  suffered  for  an 
ideal,  just  as  other  men  suffered  for  an  ideal. 
Why  should  he  not  be  allowed  to  choose  his 
ideal  and  abide  by  it?  She  believed  in  him  and, 
believing,  doubted  herself.  Women  were  giv- 
ing and  giving.  Only  she,  a  Frenchwoman, 
was  not  giving  what  was  most  precious. 

All  day  long  in  the  House  of  the  Bourdons 
she  worked  like  a  slave  that  she  might  earn 
peace  of  mind.  No  homely  task  was  too  heavy 
for  her.  She  listened  patiently  to  Grandmother 
Bourdon's  senile  mumblings,  obeyed  Louise 
Bourdon's  caprices,  tended  the  children,  put 
herself  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  family.  But 
at  night,  when  weary  of  soul  and  body  she 
crept  to  her  room,  the  image  of  the  beloved 
burned  in  the  dark  and  she  heard  him  say 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       109 

again,  "Why  should  I  die  for  them?"  His 
thin  face,  the  mystic  torment  of  his  eyes,  the 
ardent  orange-red  of  his  beard  appeared  be- 
fore her,  an  intangible  substance  that  formed 
and  dissolved  in  endless  spectral  moods,  now 
pleading,  now  stern ;  as  if  in  the  night  his  long- 
ing sought  her  out  and,  mysteriously  embodied, 
haunted  the  shadows  near  her  bed.  But  in  the 
murky  background  other  images  floated  sadly: 
a  host  of  young  faces  set  in  the  agonized  mold 
of  death.  And  she  cried  out  to  them  in  her 
restless  dreams — "Pierre  .  .  .  Henri . . .  what 
are  you  doing?  .  .  .  where  are  you?" 

Then  in  the  daytime  there  was  always  Ger- 
maine  transfigured  by  hero-worship,  talking 
and  thinking  only  of  Robert  de  Gency.  Lor- 
raine drew  near  to  the  girl,  feeding  hungrily 
on  the  ever-fresh  romance  that  flowered  so 
easily  on  crimson  soil.  And  one  day  she  asked 
Germaine : 

"Are  you  never  afraid  .  .  .  for  him?" 
With    a    rapt    look    Germaine    answered, 


110      CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

"Nothing  will  ever  happen  to  Robert.  He  is 
so  brave!" 

Lorraine  sighed  and  turned  away.  But  later 
when  the  loneliness  became  unbearable  she 
went  to  the  girl  and  told  about  the  Pole,  end- 
ing helplessly,  "What  do  you  think?  Can  I 
tell  them?  Should  I  not  go  and  live  my  own 
life?" 

Because  Germaine  loved,  Lorraine  hoped 
for  the  comfort  one  woman  can  give  another. 
Moreover  Germaine,  though  one  of  the  Bour- 
don blood,  could  still  speak  with  the  voice  of 
youth.  And  Lorraine,  the  older,  stood  blond 
and  pale  before  the  girl  as  before  a  judge. 

Robert  de  Gency's  picture,  circled  with  the 
flag  and  flanked  by  flowers,  looked  on  while 
Germaine  turned  a  shocked  face  to  her  aunt. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  love  any  one  like 
that — especially  now.  A  man  who  lives  here 
and  eats  our  bread.  .  .  ." 

"Very  little  bread,"  interposed  Lorraine 
drearily. 

Germaine  borrowed  the  brisk,  impatient  in- 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       111 

flections  of  her  mother.  The  appeal  had  ren- 
dered her  important  and  self-conscious. 

"I  love  Robert  because  he  is  doing  his  duty 
as  a  patriot — the  duty  all  men  have  to-day! 
You  know  that  Papa  would  never  hear  of  your 
marrying  a  stranger  ...  an  artist  too  .  .  . 
who  is  not  ready  to  prove  his  love  for  France. 
Think  of  our  brothers  and  Robert  out  there 
fighting,  while  any  other  man  is  safe!  How 
can  you?" 

Lorraine  humiliated  herself  further.  She 
would  have  committed  any  servile  act  to  hear 
from  Germaine  at  that  moment  a  comprehend- 
ing word.  And  she  argued: 

"But  he  is  an  artist  and  belongs  to  a  ... 
different  world  of  thought.  He  was  very  un- 
happy as  a  child,  and  there  are  political  reasons 
why  he  should  not  have  any  sympathy  with 
governments.  Why  should  he  risk  his  life  for 
us?  We  have  done  nothing  for  him." 

Rising  dramatically,  Germaine  walked  over 
to  Robert  de  Gency's  picture  as  if  to  include 
him  in  her  answer. 


112       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

"There  is  no  excuse,"  she  pronounced  se- 
verely. "It  isn't  a  question  of  governments: 
it's  a  question  of  ideals.  And  you,  Aunt  Lor- 
raine, a  Frenchwoman,  a  Bourdon  by  mar- 
riage, you  can  tolerate  such  cowardice?" 

"He  isn't  a  coward!" 

"Any  man  who  won't  fight  these  barbarians 
is  a  coward."  The  young  voice  was  uncom- 
promising. "I  have  always  respected  you, 
Aunt  Lorraine.  And  I  know  what  love  is. 
But  who  can  love  a  man  who  is  not  with  other 
men  to-day?  There  is  only  one  cause.  Noth- 
ing else  counts." 

Lorraine  swayed  as  if  she  had  been  hit.  She 
fingered  her  moist  handkerchief,  staring  un- 
happily at  the  accusing  young  creature,  who, 
savoring  her  advantage,  became  condescending. 
"You  had  better  not  tell  Mama  and  Papa. 
They  would  never  forgive  you.  I  don't  know 
what  they  would  say!"  The  Bourdon  opinion, 
thus  evoked,  seemed  to  fill  the  room. 

Lorraine  moaned,  "What  can  I  do?" 

Germaine  took  a  step  forward  and  advised 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       113 

in  softened  tones :  "If  he  really  loves  you  and 
you  tell  him  to,  he  will  enlist.  And  when  the 
war  is  over,  if  you  like,  I  will  help  you  get  the 
family's  consent." 

Lorraine  looked  at  her  with  distracted  eyes, 
"Enlist?  Where?" 

"There  is  always  the  Foreign  Legion.  It 
counts."  Her  voice  rose  to  a  pitch  of  exalta- 
tion. "Think  how  proud  you  will  be,  Aunt 
Lorraine.  He  must  go  jf  you  tell  him  to.  Of 
course  I  didn't  have  to  tell  Robert  to  go.  But 
I  suppose  since  your  friend  is  a  foreigner  and 
an  artist,  it  is  a  little  different.  It  is  your  duty 
as  a  Frenchwoman  to  use  your  influence  in  the 
right  way.  Tell  him  you  won't  love  him  unless 
he  goes.  Tell  him  no  woman  to-day  will  look 
at  a  shirker.  Once  he  has  fought  for  our  coun- 
try he  can  think  of  marrying  a  French- 
woman .  .  ." 

Lorraine  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"Oh,  Germaine,  if  he  should  be  killed!  I 
should  have  sent  him  to  his  death.  .  .  ." 

"You  would  have  taught  him  his  duty," 


114       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

cried  Germaine,  with  glistening  eyes.  "Yes, 
that  is  the  only  way." 

"The  only  way?"  murmured  Lorraine,  and 
shaken  by  the  implacable  verdict  she  sank  into 
a  chair  weeping  bitterly. 

Germaine  stood  over  her.  "You  ought  not 
to  cry  if  you  love  your  country.  I  only  cried 
once  when  Robert  said  good-by.  Think,  Aunt 
Lorraine!  He  can  prove  how  much  he  loves 
you.  And  you  will  see  him  in  uniform.  Robert 
was  so  beautiful !  That  is  the  way  a  real  man 
should  be  to-day." 

And  Lorraine,  bowed  and  hopeless,  saw  the 
thing  she  must  do  if  she  wished  to  keep  her  self- 
respect.  For  the  words  of  Germaine  rang  in 
her  ears  like  the  tolling  of  Fate.  She  could 
not  help  wondering  if  he  loved  her  enough  to 
go  at  her  bidding.  The  question  settled  deep 
in  her  mind,  deeper  than  her  grief,  and  chal- 
lenged her  subtly  to  the  test. 

Shortly  after  the  House  of  the  Bourdons 
received  a  mortal  blow.  Raymond,  the  eldest 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       115 

son,  was  killed  in  action.  It  was  as  if  the  shell 
that  had  shattered  him  had  rent  the  founda- 
tions of  a  stronghold,  mangled  the  walls  and 
left  dazed,  stricken  creatures  kneeling  to  hide 
their  faces  from  God  and  man.  And  while 
they  knelt,  huddled  against  one  another,  their 
grief  blended  into  a  single  image,  came  rever- 
ent hands  to  lay  a  flag  over  the  wreckage  and 
on  it,  as  on  an  altar,  to  place  a  sword  and  a 
Croix  de  Guerre,  which  was  all  that  was  left 
of  the  Bourdons'  son.  The  rest  of  him  was 
strewn  on  the  defended  land  with  a  neat  grave 
stiffening  in  the  tattered  valley  to  remind 
friends  and  enemy  that  a  fine  man  had  fought 
his  last  battle. 

Then  the  house  was  pierced  by  the  dreadful 
screams  of  Louise  in  throes  of  childbirth.  Men 
might  die  and  men  might  conquer,  cities  split 
like  nuts  beneath  a  heel,  churches  crumble  to 
ashes,  but  not  all  the  groaning  and  vocifera- 
tions of  warring  forces  could  alter  the  eternal 
mystery  of  creation,  not  all  the  united  powers 
craving  pardon  for  the  harm  done  in  the  name 


116       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

of  civilization  could  give  back  a  father  to  the 
newly  born. 

The  woman  writhing  on  her  bed,  with  sweat- 
ing brow  and  glazed  eyes,  cried  out  like  an 
agonizing  animal.  Her  clamor  was  futile. 
The  one  she  called  and  called  would  never 
answer  anything  again. 

"Raymond  .  .  .  Raymond  .  .  .  what  have 
they  done  to  you?  Help  .  .  .  help  .  .  .  Ray- 
mond, why  did  they  kill  you  ?  .  .  .  God,  where 
is  he?  ...  Raymond,  if  such  things  happen 
to  men  I  will  not  have  a  man  child  ...  I  will 
not  have  a  man  child  .  .  .  They'll  take  him 
from  me  too.  .  .  .  Raymond  .  .  .  why,  why, 
why,  why  .  .  .?" 

Madame  Jean  Bourdon,  decked  in  crepe, 
stood  rigidly  beside  the  bed.  Her  lips  moved 
as  if  a  hand  were  laid  over  them  smothering 
speech. 

"Courage,  my  daughter.  Raymond  died  for 
France." 

But  Louise  Bourdon  only  moaned  the  more. 
"Poor  France !  .  .  .  Poor  Raymond ! . .  .  Poor 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       117 

me!"  And,  in  another  paroxysm,  she  raved, 
"A  flag!  Bring  me  a  flag  to  hold  if  I  cannot 
have  Raymond's  hand!" 

They  brought  her  a  flag,  and  with  wild 
fingers  she  clutched  it,  closed  upon  it  convul- 
sively, shook  it  with  the  spasms  that  shook  her 
tortured  body.  She  crumpled  it  to  her  breast 
and  wept  over  it,  clinging  to  it  as  she  would 
have  clung  to  Raymond's  hand. 

In  the  darkened  salon,  surrounded  by  his 
household  gods,  sat  Jean  Bourdon,  a  weary 
old  man.  He  sat  before  a  little  table  upon 
which  were  placed  a  sword  and  a  medal.  His 
dull  eyes  never  left  these  relics.  He  sat  there 
immobile,  while  Louise  Bourdon's  shrieks  rang 
through  the  house.  His  bushy  beard  brushing 
his  chest,  his  chin  sunk  forward,  his  hands 
heavy  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  he  sat  through 
countless  time  keeping  his  vigil,  brooding  over 
ruins.  But  he  made  no  sound. 

The  things  about  him  dated  the  Bourdon 
history.  They  were  rooted  in  the  room  like 


118      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

sturdy  plants  withstanding  storms.  There  was 
the  hearth,  the  favorite  background  for  Ray- 
mond's vigorous  bulk.  How  often  he  had 
straddled  that  familiar  place,  booming  his 
opinions  to  the  assembled  family!  The  room 
was  like  a  tomb  enclosing  memories  of  his  loud 
good  nature,  his  ready  wit,  his  exuberant  self- 
confidence. 

Jean  Bourdon  saw  his  son  striding  beside 
him,  a  virile  replica  of  his  own  pride;  saw  his 
son  and  partner  beside  him  in  the  factory  man- 
aging men  with  the  magnetism  that  won  obedi- 
ence and  efficiency ;  saw  the  House  of  Industry 
where  the  "lights  of  the  heart,"  his  great  ovens, 
glowed  like  robust  hearts,  where  the  bricks  that 
made  the  houses,  that  made  the  cities,  that 
made  the  nations,  multiplied  to  suit  men's 
needs.  He  saw  the  wage-earners  at  their  posts, 
forceful  units  of  the  world's  production.  He 
saw  them  working,  he  saw  them  paid,  he  saw 
them  in  their  homes,  husbands  and  fathers. 

He  saw  his  son  Raymond  looming,  a  colossus 
of  the  battlefield,  with  raised  stained  sword  and 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       119 

lusty  voice,  urging  his  men  on  through  hell  to 
victory. 

Quickened  clods  of  native  soil,  they  spring 
from  fire  to  fire.  Then  in  an  awesome  lull, 
when  reddened  clouds  slink  westward,  over  the 
plain  gutted  with  life  fluid,  sprawl  lacerated 
remnants  of  men  and  colored  cloth.  Crouch- 
ing, stooping  figures  marked  with  the  Red 
Cross  go  fumbling  among  the  mangled  stuff, 
ears  strained  for  sign  or  groans,  and  pious 
hands  rescuing  relics.  The  deed  is  done!  A 
bruised  acre  won  to  be  lost  again  perhaps :  and 
Raymond  still  forever  .  .  . 

Now  through  the  silence  of  the  house  echoed 
Louise  Bourdon's  final  scream  of  deliverance. 
Raymond's  son  was  born.  And  down  the  hol- 
lowed cheeks  of  old  Jean  Bourdon  from  the 
very  fount  of  his  mute  despair  rolled  lonely 
tears. 


VII 

PIERRE  wrote: 
"When  is  man  most  genuine,  Be- 
loved? And  what  is  heroism?  Sup- 
pose that  spurred  by  primitive  rivalries,  or 
caught  in  a  climax  of  danger,  the  man  responds 
electrically  to  a  moment's  madness,  becomes  a 
leader  of  men  or  saves  an  imperiled  comrade, 
does  that  action  establish  forever  his  worth  in 
society?  Here  men  are  often  called  heroes, 
who  under  abnormal  pressure  perform  fool- 
hardy deeds.  I  suspect  them  in  ordinary  life 
of  being  crude  tyrants,  close-fisted  employers, 
petty  climbers.  When  they  are  removed  from 
excitement  and  the  eyes  of  their  comrades,  will 
they  sustain  the  heroic  standard?  Should  they 
survive,  perhaps  their  wives  and  partners  will 
consider  it  a  privilege  to  be  browbeaten  by 
them.  I  ask  myself  whether  this  training  in 

heroism  will  give  men  a  permanent  advantage, 

120 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       121 

whether  it  will  sweeten  homes,  encourage 
spiritual  aspirations,  strengthen  industry,  or 
whether  ruder  methods  of  gaining  an  end,  the 
will  to  conquer  of  the  untrammeled  male,  will 
not  destroy  humanity !  Questions — questions ! 
I  am  made  up  of  them.  I  shall  never  be  a 
hero,  Natalie.  Do  you  mind?  Glory  disdains 
the  plodder.  Your  letters  save  me.  They  lift 
me  from  the  drudgery  of  killing,  from  this  tiny 
area  over  which  we  see-saw,  now  up,  now  down. 
I  could  not  keep  my  ideals  from  the  bog  if  I 
could  not  dip  them  constantly  in  the  pure  foun- 
tain of  your  faith.  What  do  we  see  here, 
hiding  like  animals  behind  our  mounds?  We 
do  not  even  see  our  millions  of  brothers  battling 
for  the  common  cause.  We  only  see  ourselves, 
dust-grimed,  unshaven  creatures  moved  like 
pawns  over  a  limited  space  of  land.  We  sel- 
dom see  the  enemy.  He  probably  resembles 
us  in  many  ways,  even  though,  as  I  must  be- 
lieve, he  embodies  a  monstrous  evil  force,  a 
gigantic  destructive  machine  threatening  fu- 
ture progress.  The  world  is  very  small,  be- 

i 


122       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

loved,  from  where  I  am.  The  sky  is  an  omi- 
nous patch  plastered  over  a  festering  wound 
in  the  earth.  I  need  you  to  be  my  eyes,  my 
ears,  my  inner  voice.  I  need  you  to  unloose 
my  troubled  gaze  and  point  to  spacious  regions 
where  sky  and  land  in  final  harmony  will  one 
day  frame  the  virtue  of  a  united  mankind. 
The  map  is  cluttered  with  evil  doers.  I  sup- 
pose we  must  destroy  them  in  order  that  our 
descendants  may  delight  in  the  world.  Ex- 
plain this  to  me,  Natalie:  Christ  died  to  save 
mankind,  but  He  never  killed.  .  .  . 

"When  men  are  herded  together  for  an  or- 
ganized purpose,  they  become  animals  and 
philosophers.  They  adapt  themselves  to  neces- 
sity and  are  easily  led.  It  is  just  as  well,  is  it 
not,  Beloved?  It  is  astonishing  how  much  we 
can  endure.  We  all  must  have  our  portion  of 
sheep's  blood  along  with  the  fiery  liquid  that 
makes  good  soldiers.  And  here  the  male  thing 
is  dominant.  You  ask  me  what  is  the  male 
thing?  I  find  it  hard  to  answer.  But  if  a 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       123 

woman  such  as  you  appeared  suddenly  among 
us  we  should  feel  and  act  like  school  boys 
caught  in  fault.  Our  manner  would  change. 
I  should  say  we  should  remember  our  manners. 
We  should  all  feel  ill  at  ease  until  the  readjust- 
ment. They  are  honest  fellows.  I  love  them 
well.  And  because  I  love  them,  sometimes  I 
pity  them.  They  have  not  a  Natalie  to  keep 
the  divine  beacon  lit.  Though  Heaven  knows 
few  need  my  pity.  I  cannot  forget,  as  they  do, 
the  deeper  issues  at  stake.  I  cannot  forget  the 
potential  prosperity  they  represent,  the  hope 
of  future  international  peace.  Is  the  dream 
too  beautiful?  I  cannot  talk  of  these  things 
here.  They  do  not  understand.  They  hate 
one  race,  and  they  believe  that  with  the  ex- 
tinction of  that  race  the  problem  will  be  solved. 
Can  a  race  be  extinguished,  Natalie?  If  it  is 
true  that,  with  the  crippling  of  one  race,  peace 
and  good  will  can  flourish  in  the  rest  of  the 
world  forever,  then  our  hate  for  these  people 
must  be  more  than  a  local  commotion.  It  must 
be  a  holy  mission  that  binds  us  with  other  na- 


124       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

tions  in  the  making  of  a  World  Empire.  We 
must  conquer;  and  then  erase  the  word  from 
our  vocabulary.  It  is  a  dangerous  word. 

"They  are  honest  fellows.  I  could  name 
you  a  few  who  are  dear  to  me.  There  is  Lucien 
Nassaud,  for  example,  as  warm-hearted  as 
freshly  baked  bread,  and  as  naive  as  a  child. 
He  is  not  handsome,  poor  Lucien!  His  face 
looks  as  if  God  had  begun  to  mold  it  in  a  kindly 
humor  and  left  off  before  it  was  finished,  rather 
than  wreak  an  interrupting  mood  of  Heavenly 
irony  upon  a  humble  creature.  Lucien's  good- 
ness multiplies  like  the  loaves  in  the  miracle. 
There  is  enough  for  every  one.  And  when 
sometimes  beneath  the  stars  we  find  the  heart 
to  talk  of  home,  he  speaks  simply  of  his  old 
father  and  mother,  modest  loving  people  whose 
sole  support  he  was.  They  are  not  rich.  Lu- 
cien is  an  architect  like  his  father.  They  two 
have  worked  together  at  little  jobs  that  show 
the  conscientious  artisan.  Our  city  is  full  of 
such  dull,  inconspicuous  bits,  that  stand  for 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE      125 

earnest,  unimaginative  labor.  Before  the  war 
Lucien  was  keeping  up  the  business  alone,  that 
his  father,  after  many  years,  might  rest.  But 
now  the  old  father  has  taken  on  the  yoke  again, 
and  every  morning  at  seven,  he  is  in  his  office 
struggling  patiently  over  odds  and  ends  that 
come  his  way,  straining  his  tired  eyes  and  urg- 
ing on  his  trembling  hands  at  the  task  of  re- 
placing his  son.  They  never  complain,  though 
life  is  hard  and  there  must  be  the  constant 
fear  in  their  hearts  of  losing  their  Lucien. 
They  send  him  packages  from  time  to  time  with 
little  luxuries  they  can  ill  afford.  I  have  seen 
Lucien's  eyes  grow  wet  when  he  receives  one 
of  these  packages.  He  knows  so  well  the  cost. 
Everything  he  receives  must  be  divided  among 
his  comrades.  He  is  as  generous  as  he  is 
modest.  He  never  hopes  to  rise  above  medi- 
ocrity. He  has  told  me  often  how  much  the 
vision  fails  him.  But  is  it  mediocrity?  I  often 
think  that  the  sweet  kindliness  of  unpretentious 
minds  contains  beauty  unknown  to  brilliant 
spirits.  We  need  all  sorts  of  builders  to  make 


126       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

a  city.  And  Lucien  has  a  distinct  taste  for 
beauty,  an  eager  appreciation  for  summits  he 
may  never  attain.  He  carries  about  a  few  post- 
cards :  pictures  of  Notre  Dame,  of  the  Parthe- 
non, of  the  Taj  Mahal.  He  says  it  makes 
him  happy  to  know  such  things  exist.  And  he 
tells  me  that  he  and  his  father  used  to  spend 
their  evenings  studying  a  collection  of  such 
postcards,  delighting  in  the  monuments  of  the 
past,  imagining  treasures  they  might  never  see. 
Lucien's  great  dream  has  been  a  trip  to  Greece. 
He  often  says,  'If  I  am  killed,  I  shall  never 
have  known  Athens!' 

"Then  there  is  Brillaud  de  Granville,  a 
young  painter  whose  modern  portraits  amused 
the  great  ladies  of  his  world.  For  him  success 
was  easily  attained.  He  is  a  dark,  ardent  per- 
son with  flippant  speech  that  masks  a  dreamer. 
He  dreads  ridicule  and,  dissembling  that  dread, 
plays  the  fool  to  dodge  the  label  of  sentimen- 
talist. He  affects  a  skepticism  concerning  God 
and  man.  But  one  day  I  caught  him  kneeling 
in  a  wood,  beside  the  body  of  his  best  friend. 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       127 

And  he  was  praying  then.     Another  time  I 
saw  the  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  handled  our 


"Jean  Lodec  is  a  peasant.  He  has  that  grave 
serenity  that  comes  to  men  who  live  close  to 
earth.  He  sits  for  hours  and  stares  at  the  tor- 
tured land  over  which  we  have  fought  and 
refought.  He  does  not  talk  much.  But  once 
when  I  spoke  of  the  harvest  his  heavy  face  lit 
suddenly  and  he  told  me  of  his  farm,  his  or- 
chards, his  wife  and  children.  'They  have  not 
attacked  my  land,'  he  muttered;  'I  would  be 
better  back  there.'  And  his  huge  hands  that 
are  as  sinewy  as  roots  moved  clumsily  from  his 
gun  to  point  beyond  the  hills.  Patient  son  of 
the  soil,  what  fatality  has  brought  him  from 
his  fields  to  join  with  other  men  in  this  de- 
struction! 

"These  men  and  many  others  have  for  me 
a  deep  significance.  They  have  changed  for 
bayonets,  perhaps  forever,  their  compasses, 
their  brushes,  their  hoes.  Which  is  the  best 
weapon?  Their  dreams  are  shelved.  They 


128       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

are  useful  only  in  as  much  as  they  can  endure 
and  shoot  straight.  Yet  I  cannot  see  the 
remedy.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Beloved,  they  have  fallen  all  about  me, 
and  I  am  still  alive.  Lucien  Nassaud  is  dead. 
Brillaud  de  Granville  is  dead.  Jean  Lodec  is 
dead,  and  so  many  others  whose  names  you  will 
never  know.  A  surprise  attack,  repulsed,  but 
at  what  cost !  They  say  that  men  grow  accus- 
tomed to  death.  Some  do.  I  cannot.  I  try 
.  .  .  but  I  cannot.  Afterwards  there  is  always 
the  ghastly  nausea,  the  f  aintness,  the  sick  heart. 
And  I  count  those  who  have  gone  and  cannot 
measure  the  loss. 

"Poor  Lucien  knew  he  would  never  come 
back,  knew  it  several  days  ago  with  one  of 
those  mysterious  instincts  men  learn  to  have 
out  here.  He  gave  me  a  little  letter  for  his 
father.  But  Natalie,  how  can  I  bear  to  go  to 
them  and  tell  them  how  quickly  it  was  done? 
What  will  become  of  them?  What  will  become 
of  all  of  us  if  this  goes  on?  To  have  a  comrade 


\ 
CHILDREN   OF   FATE       129 

there  beside  you,  a  living,  aspiring  creature, 
linked  by  laws  of  kin  to  other  creatures,  to 
have  heard  his  voice  day  after  day,  taken  his 
hand  and  called  him  friend ;  and  in  an  instant 
to  see  him  a  crushed,  nameless  thing  with 
spilled  brains  and  stilled  heart! 

"Brillaud  will  never  paint  again.  Who  will 
know  what  message  he  had  to  give  ?  And  Jean 
Lodec  will  never  gather  another  harvest.  The 
soil  he  nurtured  has  claimed  him.  And  these 
are  only  three.  What  of  the  others  with  the 
unfinished  tasks,  the  ungarnered  dreams,  the 
slaughtered  genius!  What  of  those  who  held 
locked  in  the  fastness  of  their  brain  the  secrets 
to  come — of  science,  of  art?  The  chain  is  being 
broken,  Natalie,  the  chain  that  linked  the  past 
with  the  future,  whose  every  ring  enclosed 
knowledge.  What  research,  what  invention, 
what  cures  for  evils  may  not  be  dying  with  the 
young  thousands!  .  .  .  Tell  me  that  nothing 
is  irrevocable,  that  from  the  dust  of  crumbled 
dreams  greater  wisdom  will  arise  to  enlighten 
generations.  Tell  me  that  we  are  saving  man- 


130       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

kind  in  losing  ourselves.  The  spoken  words  of 
the  young  dead  may  be  written  on  the  tablets, 
but,  Natalie,  who  will  ever  know  the  embryonic 
secrets  never  told,  the  unborn  melodies,  the 
messages  never  to  be  delivered  ...  all  doomed 
with  the  broken  shell  that  circled  them.  .  .  . 

"Natalie,  Natalie,  they  have  written  me. 
Raymond  is  dead.  I  cannot  believe  it.  Ray- 
mond so  strong,  so  sure  of  every  thought  and 
act,  so  vital !  What  will  become  of  my  father 
now?  They  say  he  died  gloriously.  Since  he 
had  to  go,  I  am  proud  that  it  was  with  glory. 
But  what  is  glory  after  all,  Natalie?  It  can- 
not give  life. 

"The  news  has  crushed  my  spirit  .  .  .  oh, 
only  for  a  while.  With  you  beside  me  I  can 
face  all  things.  But  I  remember  when  I  was 
a  boy  how  kind  Raymond  used  to  be.  I  was 
proud  to  be  seen  with  him,  especially  when  he 
wore  the  uniform  of  his  Lycee,  and  walked 
among  men  even  then  as  a  man  speaking  their 
language.  I  remember  how  good-naturedly 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       131 

he  laughed  at  me  and  my  timid  dreams.  He 
was  always  the  first  in  father's  heart.  And 
he  is  the  first  to  go!  Strange!  My  father 
wrote  me  a  beautiful  letter.  He  said,  'Your 
brother,  our  dear  Raymond,  died  gloriously 
for  his  country.  We  are  very  proud  of  him. 
And  a  son,  a  second  Raymond,  has  been  born 
to  avenge  his  father.  God's  will  be  done.' 

"But,  Natalie,  the  word  'avenge'  has  filled 
me  with  dread.  This  new  baby  will  not 
be  a  man  for  many  years.  Must  he  then  be 
brought  to  hate  and  kill,  and  must  his  son 
avenge  him  too?  Then  there  is  no  end.  If  all 
the  men  of  all  the  nations  who  die  in  this  war 
must  be  avenged  by  their  sons,  there  will  be 
no  rest  in  the  world.  I  do  not  want  to  be 
avenged  if  I  die,  Natalie.  Remember  that. 
Do  not  let  them  avenge  me." 

Natalie  answered: 

"Pierre,  they  shall  not  avenge  you,  no,  nor 
the  other  millions.  Their  sons  and  the  sons  of 
their  sons  will  have  other  things  to  do,  patch- 


132       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

ing  up  the  world.  There  is  a  limit  to  evil. 
You  are  the  sacrificed  ones  at  the  threshold  of 
a  new  era.  We  are  in  the  Dark  Ages  now, 
fighting  as  we  believe  for  the  salvation  of  men. 
It  is  a  worthy  cause.  Raymond  has  died  for 
it.  But  you  will  not  die.  You  must  not,  you 
shall  not. 

"Pierre,  here  in  the  city  the  people  wait  and 
hope  serenely  for  the  end.  I  have  grown  to 
love  the  people  as  you  loved  Lucien  Nassaud 
and  Jean  Lodec.  They  do  not  look  farther 
than  their  homes.  But  each  home  has  its  hum- 
ble shrine  where  women  pray  confidently. 
Their  confidence  must  reach  you.  The  blood  of 
France  is  sweet,  Pierre.  From  it  will  grow 
poppies  and  roses.  And  as  the  testament  of 
any  one  who  dies  is  sacred,  why  should  not  the 
will  of  the  slain  thousands  be  sacred !  If  they 
could  tell  us  now,  they  would  demand,  in  pay- 
ment for  their  lives,  future  peace  on  earth. 
Peace  would  be  their  legacy. 

"You  are  battling  for  many  issues:  for  eco- 
nomic freedom,  prosperity,  the  right  to  live. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       133 

The  Governments  tell  us  so.  And  they  should 
know  the  stakes  better  than  short-sighted  citi- 
zens. They  are  showing  us  that  culture  must 
defeat  false  culture,  that  the  enemy's  God  is 
not  the  real  God,  that  this  is  a  war  of  justice, 
not  of  conquest.  France  is  bleeding  gener- 
ously, Belgium  is  bleeding  pierced  by  the  sword 
of  conquest.  What  can  they  do  but  fight  for 
their  lives?  These  nations  who  are  welded  to- 
gether are  noble  unselfish  righters  of  wrong. 
They  can  have  no  ulterior  motives.  They 
would  not  send  their  sons  out  to  die  for  vulgar 
gain.  A  long,  long  time  ago — even  in  Na- 
poleonic days — the  aim  was  frankly  conquest 
and  power.  But  to-day,  our  social  conscious- 
ness awakened,  we  can  have  no  such  back- 
ward purpose.  We  fight  against  the  Im- 
perial idea,  which  in  our  language  is  evil. 
Watch  the  socialists,  Pierre :  how  quickly  they 
have  adapted  themselves  to  the  crisis.  Surely 
had  the  leaders  not  been  convinced  that  the 
workingman  was  fighting  to  protect  his  free- 
dom, they  would  never  have  ranged  themselves 


134      CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

with  capitalists,  Kings  and  Presidents.  Think 
of  the  Russian  revolutionists  who  have  declared 
a  truce,  who  are  in  the  ranks.  All  these  have 
no  profit  in  it.  They  work  in  cabinets  and 
councils  for  the  good  of  man.  Among  the 
Allies  it  is  a  reign  of  love,  a  disinterested  co- 
operation against  a  common  enemy.  Some  day 
when  the  smoke  has  cleared  and  the  battle- 
grounds are  healed  we  shall  see  and  know  what 
we  have  escaped.  Meanwhile  the  people  are 
being  excellently  cared  for.  You  cannot 
imagine,  Pierre  dear,  how  kind  every  one  is, 
how  eager  to  help.  Women  who  have  always 
been  sheltered  from  contact  with  the  working 
classes,  are  now  handling  miseries  as  delicately 
as  once  they  fingered  chiffons.  They  too  have 
little  to  gain  in  return  for  the  time  and  strength 
they  give  to  humanity.  And  then  there  ate 
the  humbler  women,  those  whom  I  love,  each 
ready  with  a  sacrifice.  We  shall  never  hear  of 
them  when  the  war  is  over.  But  they  will  have 
given  more  than  their  portion.  Do  you  see, 
my  Pierre,  how  philosophical  is  the  right  half 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       135 

of  the  world  in  dealing  with  its  problems,  and 
what  beauty  emanates  from  this  drama?  Let 
your  heart  be  great,  even  in  mourning.  You 
battle  for  civilization." 

So  did  Natalie  write.     And  her  pen  was 
dipped  in  bitterness. 


VIII 

NOW  indeed  was  the  world  in  a  sad  way. 
The  coil  had  loosened  around  the  men- 
aced city.  A  brilliant,  desperate  vic- 
tory frustrated  the  enemy's  design.  But  win- 
ter lifted  its  icy  fist  and  shook  it  at  the  armies. 
Men  wielded  spades  and  dug  holes  to  hide  in. 
The  women  knitted  faster.  The  factories  of 
blood  disgorged  their  products.  And  some  men 
grew  rich;  and  many  grew  poor.  Scientists 
and  economists  worked  hard  upon  the  abiding 
questions  of  death  and  debt,  while  in  their  set- 
tled purpose  uniforms  crouched  over  the  map 
with  fixed  murderous  eyes  and  lofty  motives. 
And  the  fair  thoughts  that  beckon  men  to 
death,  those  cunning  servitors  of  governments, 
flapped  like  so  many  little  flags  in  men's 
brains :  a  nation's  honor,  liberty,  duty  to  cause. 
Oh,  naive  instruments,  Natalie  thought, 
played  by  the  clever  fingers  of  the  Powers! 

136 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       137 

Beloved  little  men,  with  big  ideals,  with  slum- 
bering common  sense !  The  hymns  that  one  day 
lull  you  to  security  awaken  you  the  next  to 
a  ferocious  exaltation,  wherein  the  things  you 
hold — the  home,  the  field,  the  business  of  earn- 
ing bread — crumble  in  your  nervous  fingers, 
while  you  listen  to  the  tune  the  Piper  plays. 
The  instincts  that  make  you  godly  trick  you 
into  such  irrevocable  deeds  that  ever  afterwards 
your  sons  shall  bear  the  brunt  of  your  folly, 
and  perhaps  curse  you  for  it. 

"An  enemy!  An  enemy!  Bring  me  an 
enemy!"  you  shout  as  boys  clamor  for  tin  sol- 
diers. The  government,  an  indulgent  parent, 
goes  out  and  buys  you  one  or  two.  And  sud- 
denly you  are  engaged  in  a  game  you  did  not 
bargain  for.  Enemies  are  more  easily  bought 
than  wisdom.  Then  all  your  other  playthings 
are  destroyed:  the  puzzle  of  democracy,  the 
mechanical  toys  of  inventions,  your  picture 
books  of  funny  laws,  your  farm  houses  and 
your  doll  houses,  the  merry-go-round  where 
wealthy  children  ride  proudly  on  the  golden 


138       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

geese,    the   honest   trading   with   your   little 
neighbor. 

Felix  went  to  Natalie  and  said: 
"Little  comrade,  is  there  anything  you 
haven't  told  me?  You're  not  the  same  girl 
lately.  We  used  to  talk  things  over,  but  now 
you  never  tell  me  anything.  Are  you  just 
worried  about  Peter?  Or  have  I  hurt  you  in 
any  way?  Perhaps  you  think  I'm  not  acting 
right?  I  know  how  much  you  respect  Peter 
for  what  he's  doing.  I'll  never  forget  how  fine 
you  were  when  he  left.  And  I  know  what  your 
letters  mean  to  him  now.  You  told  Maxwell 
Clark  a  few  things.  You  were  pretty  hard  on 
him,  but  I  guess  you  didn't  mean  most  of 
them.  .  .  .  Look  here,  Natalie,  you  and  I  have 
always  been  pals.  And  I  want  you  to  speak 
out  straight  to  me.  I  wonder  if  you  haven't 
held  it  up  against  me  because  I  haven't  done 
my  part  with  the  others.  Perhaps  I'm  a 
coward.  I'd  hate  to  fight.  I  don't  see  how 
Peter  stands  it.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  a 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       139 

shirker.  What  do  you  say,  old  girl?  Hadn't 
I  better  enlist?"  He  stood  before  her  much 
as  Pierre  had  done.  His  honest  face  was  set 
in  a  stern  mold  with  inquiring  eyes  and  salient 
jaw. 

"These  fellows  are  great,"  he  went  on,  lower- 
ing his  gaze.  "I'm  almost  ashamed  when  I 
pass  them  on  the  street.  What  do  you  suppose 
they  think  of  me — a  hulking  mass  of  flesh  and 
bones  just  as  fit  as  they  are,  if  not  fitter,  hang- 
ing around  here  fiddling  with  architecture, 
while  they  get  shot  to  hell?  I  thought  I'd 
talk  it  over  with  you  first.  But  it's  been  on  my 
mind.  And  perhaps  you've  been  thinking  of 
it  too.  If  I  go  in  I'm  going  hard.  It  won't 
be  any  easy  job  for  me,  you  understand."  His 
eyes  rested  in  a  moment's  longing  upon  the 
scattered  drawings. 

Then  Natalie,  who  had  stayed  rigidly  listen- 
ing to  his  halting  words,  stretched  out  her 
hands  with  a  passionate  motion. 

"Felix  .  .  .  you  too?"  The  cry  broke  from 
her  with  such  violence  that  he  turned  short. 


140       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

Natalie  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  her  hand  shield- 
ing her  eyes.  Her  huddled  figure  expressed 
despair.  Felix  reached  her  with  a  stride. 

"I  didn't  know  you'd  take  it  this  way." 

"Wait  .  .  .  wait,"  she  whispered. 

His  kind  hand  on  her  shoulder  seemed 
heavier  than  any  weight.  It  pressed  her  down 
into  the  regions  where  only  one  may  go  at  a 
time.  She  heard  his  voice  groping  uncertainly 
with  the  phrases  she  had  grown  to  dread. 

"We  all  agree  that  it's  an  unholy  mess.  But 
what's  a  man  to  do?  Why  should  I  be  spared? 
These  chaps  don't  want  to  fight  any  more  than 
I  do.  But  they  know  they've  got  to  win.  Isn't 
it  a  world- job — for  every  one?  How  am  I 
different  from  them?" 

She  murmured,  "But  this  isn't  your  coun- 
try." 

"They  may  be  attacking  our  country  next 
unless  they're  stopped,"  he  cried  in  a  strong 
voice.  "You  can't  tell  what  they'll  do." 

She  was  thinking  that  she  was  a  poor  crea- 
ture nipped  between  the  thumb  and  forefinger 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       141 

of  a  grinning  monster  and  dangled  over  a  pit. 
She  struggled  to  escape  from  the  monster's 
grin.  And  there  was  Felix  saying  earnestly, 
"You'd  care  a  lot  more  about  me  if  I  went. 
Now  .  .  .  wouldn't  you?" 

But  then  Natalie  found  the  strength  to  break 
the  paralyzing  spell.  She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"I  would  not!"  The  parry  was  sudden.  His 
hand  dropped  to  his  side.  Perplexity  tied  his 
features  into  a  comic  knot. 

"I  would  not,"  she  repeated  energetically, 
and  with  recovered  speech  found  a  desperate 
alertness.  "Felix,  don't  be  a  fool!"  She 
brushed  aside  his  stammered  rejoinder  and 
motioned  to  a  chair.  "Sit  down  and  listen 
to  me."  He  obeyed  her. 

Then  bracing  herself  for  an  effort  Natalie 
began : 

"Felix,  you  and  I  are  babes  in  a  burning 
wood.  Unless  we  keep  our  wits  and  judgment 
clear  we'll  be  destroyed.  We  can't  alter  the 
course  of  events  to-day.  A  few  people  have 
tried  and  they  have  been  called  traitors.  The 


142       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

time  for  free  speech  has  passed.  War  has  its 
prescribed  vocabulary.  And  leaders  entrench 
themselves  behind  it,  if  they  wish  to  remain 
leaders.  But  when  I  see  you  standing  under 
a  burning  tree,  crying  out  that  there's  a  boa- 
constrictor  living  in  the  wood  and  that  it  must 
be  got  rid  of,  I'm  willing  to  bet  that,  while  you 
catch  on  fire,  the  boa-constrictor  is  sneaking 
from  the  dangerous  place  and  crawling  off  to 
other  hunting  grounds.  World-violence  has 
as  many  skins  as  a  snake,  and  changes  them 
as  often.  It  is  the  Hydra  of  Civilization.  But 
we  have  still  to  discover  how  to  rid  the  world 
of  it  once  and  for  all.  The  throned  tyrant  is 
only  one  head,  the  munition  maker  is  another. 
And  there  are  thousands  of  heads !"  She  gave 
him  a  moment  to  answer,  but  he  nibbled  at 
his  pipe  and  watched  her  with  troubled  eyes. 
Her  voice  grew  gentle.  "Felix,  why  do  you 
want  to  go?  Because  you  are  a  man?  Look 
squarely  into  your  motives.  Your  vanity  is 
perhaps  at  stake.  You  are  ashamed,  you  say, 
to  pass  a  soldier  on  the  street.  I  wonder  if 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       143 

he  isn't  often  envying  you.  But  suppose  he 
is  despising  you?  Will  you  be  driven  by  fear 
of  his  disdain  into  a  uniform?" 

"Give  me  credit  for  some  decency!"  pro- 
tested Felix. 

She  accorded  it,  continuing,  "Well,  then, 
eliminate  any  suggestion  of  human  weakness. 
You  believe  that  Imperialism  must  be  defeated. 
So  do  I.  You  believe  that  war  is  an  effective 
remedy?  I  do  not.  Look  farther  than  the 
present  struggle  ...  if  you  can.  Look  at 
the  education  of  children,  the  increased  armies 
and  navies,  the  readjusted  map,  the  watchful 
eyes  of  nations  each  glistening  on  a  neighbor's 
gain,  vowing  friendship  while  they  scheme 
and  hunt  for  profit.  Where  you  find  it,  there 
you  will  find  the  causes  for  future  Imperial- 
ism. Look  closely  at  your  own  country,  Felix. 
We  are  young.  Our  history  is  in  the  making. 
And  a  hydra-head  is  quickly  grown.  What 
are  the  capitalists  doing  to-day?  Where  is 
there  profit  for  some  of  them?  Don't  forget 
it  is  in  war;  but  not  the  greatest  war  of  all, 


144       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

the  war  of  Democracy.  They  could  not  sell 
munitions  to  strikers,  or  lend  vast  sums  to  the 
people.  But  they  can  feed  the  cannons  for  a 
price,  and  buy  the  products  of  their  land,  resell- 
ing them  as  they  see  fit,  and  they  can  tinker 
with  conquered  colonies.  You  prate  of  enemies 

.  .  .  attacks!   The  enemy  is  within  our  gates, 

p 

snugly  hidden  behind  his  purpose.  It  does  not 
need  a  uniform  to  sniff  him  out  ...  It  is  noble 
to  give  your  life  for  a  cause.  But  when  all  the 
lives  of  honest  men  are  given,  the  monster  will 
still  survive.  France  is  a  sublime  martyr.  Ger- 
many to-day  is  the  hydra-head.  But  when  that 
head  is  severed,  another  will  grow.  Then 
what?  Not  until  united  races  break  their  sword 
and  starve  the  monster  while  they  feed  them- 
selves will  there  be  a  useful  victory.  What 
am  I  saying?  It  comes  to  nothing !"  Her  ges- 
tures demolished  theories.  She  turned  away 
wearily,  as  if  she  had  defeated  her  own  ends 
in  defending  them. 

But  Felix  questioned  in  a  dull  voice,  "What's 
to  be  done  then?" 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       145 

"Nothing!  This  may  be  the  prelude  to  an 
ended  world,"  she  said  with  a  faint  smile. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  started  pacing 
the  studio,  flinging  at  her,  "What's  got  into 
you,  Natalie  ?  You're  beyond  me.  Why  didn't 
you  talk  this  way  to  Peter?" 

She  took  the  question  squarely,  shooting  an 
answer,  "Because  it  would  have  killed  his  faith 
in  everything."  Then  with  renewed  vigor  she 
burst  out.  "Can't  you  see  how  helpless  I  am? 
I  who  love  this  country  and  love  Pierre,  I  can 
save  neither!  Their  fate  is  joined.  I  mean  to 
speak  of  nations,  not  of  a  nation — of  races, 
not  of  a  race — of  people,  not  of  one  creature. 
For  when  I  speak  of  France  and  Pierre  my 
heart  is  sick.  The  valiant  little  men,  the  pa- 
tient women,  represent  to  me  the  tragic  ro- 
mance of  the  world.  Their  tortured  land  is 
stricken,  their  homes  are  emptied,  and  their 
spirit  remains  unquenchable.  In  the  whole 
dreary  drama  of  our  epoch,  where  loss  wears 
the  same  mask,  my  love  mourns  most  over  the 
bitter  red  river  that  carries  the  blood  of  France 


146      CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

to  the  great  ocean  where  all  blood  is  merged." 
She  shivered  as  if  an  icy  wind  had  touched  her; 
then  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  Felix.  "But 
you !  You  must  be  saved  for  saner  work.  You 
must  be  brave  enough  not  to  kill,  wise  enough 
not  to  be  killed.  I  tell  you  there  must  be  men 
left  to  build  the  houses,  till  the  fields,  to  up- 
hold the  wage-earners,  to  sing  the  songs  of 
labor  and  creation.  There  must  be  some  youth 
left  to  dream  of  dawns  and  sunsets,  of  suns 
and  moons,  of  happy  things.  The  stalwart 
sons  of  our  mothers  would  do  well  to  stay  at 
home  and  offer  their  health  and  brains  to  better 
service  than  that  of  the  cannon.  Now  I  have 
no  more  to  say.  You  can  go  or  stay  as  you 
see  fit." 

Felix  turned  his  back  on  her  and  stood  a 
long  while  staring  out  at  the  roofs.  She  sat 
as  if  she  had  forgotten  him,  as  if  she  had  for- 
gotten all  things  and  had  finished  her  work  of 
living.  Her  mind  was  white  as  an  unwritten 
sheet. 
!>-,  Finally  he  moved.  He  came  over  and  knelt 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       147 

beside  her,  encircling  her  with  his  arms.    His 
voice  was  choked. 

"'I  won't  go,  Natalie  .  .  .  I  won't  go."  He 
repeated  it  over  and  over  again,  clinging  to 
her  like  a  child.  And  without  joy  she  held  him, 
murmuring  his  name  as  if  she  were  calling 
some  one  else. 


IX 

NATALIE  was  alone  when  Lorraine 
came  to  her. 
It  was  late  afternoon.  The  houses 
of  the  city  were  huddled  one  against  the  other, 
their  stony  faces  veiled  by  the  long  shadows, 
like  women  waiting  for  their  widowhood.  The 
bells  of  St.  Germain  sounded  deep  as  they  rang 
a  dusky  hour.  Against  the  darker  horizon 
hung  clouds  like  lurid  flowers  burst  from  the 
cannon's  seed.  On  the  silent  balcony  where 
Natalie  stood  staring  out,  the  solemn  essence 
of  the  twilight  had  gathered  the  last  lingering 
scents  of  summer,  and  a  haunting  sadness  that 
seemed  to  have  traveled  from  afar. 

Natalie's  melancholy  was  broken  by  a  wild 
knocking  at  the  door.  And  when  with  startled 
haste  she  went  to  open,  she  found  Lorraine 
swathed  in  crepe,  a  haggard  woman  whose 
ravaged  face  bore  fresh  marks  of  tears.  Her 

148 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       149 

blond  hair  framed  her  with  indifferent  shine. 
Her  black-gloved  hands  went  out  to  Natalie 
as  she  swayed  forward. 

Natalie  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Pierre  .  .  .  ?" 

But  Lorraine  shook  her  head,  and  with  un- 
certain steps  reached  the  couch,  muttering  in- 
coherent words.  "He's  gone  ...  I  sent  him 
.  .  .  But  she  said  it  was  the  only  way  .  .  . 
and  now  he  hates  me.  Oh,  my  God,  it's  my 
fault!  I  had  to  come  to  you  .  .  .  you're  the 
only  one.  .  .  ." 

Natalie  stood  over  her  anxious  and  per- 
plexed, her  own  heart  slowly  resuming  its  nor- 
mal beat. 

"Tell  me,  dear  Lorraine,  what  is  it?  Have 
you  lost  any  one?" 

"Oh,  yes  .  .  .  oh,  yes!" 

"You  poor,  poor  thing.  Has  .  .  .  another 
of  Pierre's  brothers  been  killed?" 

"No."  She  looked  up  at  Natalie  pitifully. 
The  light  was  washed  from  her  eyes.  Her 
hands  fumbled  with  the  folds  of  her  heavy  veil. 


150       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

She  did  not  seem  strong  enough  to  support 
the  weight  of  the  crepe. 

Natalie  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Now  tell  me." 

Then  with  an  effort  at  control  that  con- 
tracted her  body  into  a  rigid  pose,  Lorraine 
began,  and  each  word  was  like  a  lonely  thing 
groping  its  way. 

"I  love  some  one  .  .  .  he's  a  Polish  sculp- 
tor. He  .  .  .  when  this  war  broke  out,  he 
never  thought  of  going.  There  were  political 
reasons,  and  he  was  not  made  ...  to  fight. 
I  understood  at  first.  No  one  has  ever  done 
anything  for  him  to  help  him  along.  He  is 
very  poor.  Why  should  he  fight  for  them?" 
her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 

"Well?"  said  Natalie  gently. 

"Well,  soon  I  felt  ashamed.  When  all  the 
Bourdon  men  went  off,  it  seemed  ...  a  re- 
proach. They  would  have  despised  me  for  lov- 
ing a  man  who  was  not  doing  his  share.  I 
didn't  dare  tell  them.  I  didn't  dare  be  happy. 
I  thought  of  you  and  Pierre.  And  it  shamed 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       151 

me  to  think  that  you,  a  stranger,  were  giving 
all  that  you  had  dearest  to  France,  that  you 
were  so  noble  and  convinced  of  the  worth  of 
sacrifice,  while  I,  a  Frenchwoman,  was  a  cow- 
ard. Oh,  Natalie,  what  must  you  think  of 
me?"  She  bowed  her  head.  Her  voice  went 
on  in  dreadful  monotony.  "I  saw  the  other 
women  in  mourning  ...  I  saw  the  wounded 
men  .  .  .  and  the  dead.  I  knew  the  country 
was  in  danger.  And  all  this  time  there  was 
Sacha,  half  starving,  but  .  .  .  safe,  working, 
dreaming,  loving  me.  I  was  afraid  to  come  to 
you.  But  I  had  to  go  to  some  one,  as  I  was 
in  such  a  state.  So  I  asked  Germaine.  She 
is  engaged,  you  know,  to  Robert  de  Gency. 
She  is  young.  She  loves  too.  I  thought  she 
would  clear  my  conscience  for  me  and  tell  me 
to  be  glad  because  he  was  safe.  But  she  judged 
me  severely.  Oh,  she  was  merciless !" 

Natalie  put  a  hand  on  Lorraine's  knee.  "I 
wish  I  had  known."  Shadows  crept  across  the 
studio  floor,  touching  Lorraine's  crepe  with 
furtive  fingers. 


152       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

"She  said  he  ought  to  go.  She  said  he  must 
go  if  he  loved  me.  And  I  listened  to  her  .  .  . 
It  seemed  the  only  way!"  she  wailed  in  sudden 
anguish.  "Then  I  wondered  if  he  really  cared 
enough  for  me  to  make  this  sacrifice  for  me 
and  for  my  country.  I  doubted  him  ...  I 
doubted  myself.  It  was  horrible.  When  Ray- 
mond was  killed  Germaine  came  to  me.  I 
never  thought  she  could  be  so  pitiless.  She 
told  me  if  I  could  go  on  loving  a  man  who  was 
not  doing  his  duty  that  she  would  consider  me 
disloyal  to  them  all,  disloyal  to  Raymond's 
memory,  and  that  she  would  tell  the  family.  I 
could  not  have  stood  that.  Every  night  I 
dreamed  of  Raymond  and  Pierre  .  .  .  and  all 
the  others.  At  last  I  went  to  Sacha." 

"You  went  to  send  him  out?"  asked  Natalie 
in  a  low  voice. 

She  nodded.  For  a  moment  she  could  not 
speak.  Dusk  stole  into  the  room,  enveloping 
them  with  its  quiet  mist.  Lorraine's  pale  face 
shone  out  like  a  lost,  wilted  flower  drifting  on 
turgid  waters. 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       153 

"I  shall  never  forget  that  day.  It  was  yes- 
terday. I  shall  never  forget  until  I  die.  Ger- 
maine  took  me  to  his  door  and  left  me  there.  I 
told  him  quickly.  I  was  standing  beside  a  big 
figure  of  the  Christ  he  has  been  working  on 
ever  since  the  war  broke  out.  I  remember  it 
towered  above  me.  And  I  remember  the  feel 
of  the  damp  clay  once  when  I  touched  it  ... 
it  was  clammy  as  a  corpse.  I  told  him  quickly 
that  I  must  give  him  up  unless  he  enlisted.  I 
told  him  ...  I  could  not  love  a  coward."  Her 
voice  rose  to  a  shriek.  "Oh,  God,  I  shall  never 
forget  him!  He  didn't  move  while  I  talked. 
But  his  eyes  lost  all  their  dreams,  all  their  hope, 
and  blazed  at  me — as  if  a  furnace  lit  within 
him  were  burning  everything  I  threw  into  it. 
He  looked  so  deeply  and  so  fiercely  at  my  poor 
naked  soul  that  I  felt  it  shriveling  up.  Yet  I 
went  on.  His  face  was  white.  His  beard 
flamed  from  it  like  a  red  banner.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  said,  'Is  this  your  last  word?*  Then 
it  was  too  late.  I  thought  of  them:  of  Ray- 
mond, Germaine  .  .  .  and  you  and  Pierre. 


154       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

And  I  answered  that  it  was.  He  strode  over 
to  me  and  seized  my  wrists  so  brutally  that  I 
could  not  move.  And  he  said  in  a  voice  that  I 
can  never  forget,  'Yes,  I  will  go.  But  I  will 
not  go  because  I  love  you,  but  because  you  have 
killed  love.  I  will  go  and  you  will  never  see 
me  again.  I  shall  never  come  back.  You  have 
taught  me  enough  now  what  life  is  worth !'  .  .  . 
I  was  afraid  of  him  and  tried  to  get  away.  But 
he  held  me  fast.  'You  are  a  coward/  he  said 
and  laughed  as  I  have  never  heard  a  man  laugh. 
'You  put  a  fine  price  on  your  love.  You  bar- 
gain well.  And  I  who  believed  that  on  this 
earth  there  still  remained  a  remnant  of  the 
spirit  of  Christ,  I  who  trusted  in  you,  I  have 
been  a  fool.  Yes,  I  will  go.  But  I  go  hating 
man  ...  all  men  .  .  .  and  such  women  as 
you.' '  Lorraine  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  began  weeping.  "Then  he  turned 
and  put  his  shoulder  to  the  figure  of  the  Christ 
and  pushed.  I  saw  the  veins  in  his  neck  bulge 
out.  I  heard  him  breathe  like  a  man  who  has 
been  running.  Then  I  saw  the  thing  topple 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       155 

and  crash  down.  Oh,  the  noise!  It  broke  a 
little  vase  of  flowers.  I  remember  he  stepped 
on  a  rose  that  rolled  to  his  feet.  .  And  it 
dragged  chairs  and  the  table  over  with  it  and 
lay  face  downwards  in  a  litter  of  stuff.  He 
pointed  to  it  still  laughing.  'That's  what 
you've  done.  Now  go !'  I  went  on  my  knees, 
Natalie.  I  prayed  and  begged  him  to  forgive 
me.  But  I  was  afraid  of  him.  He  told  me  if 
I  did  not  go  at  once  he  would  kill  me.  So  I 
left  him.  Now  it  is  all  over.  He  will  never, 
never  come  back." 

"You  did  this?"  said  Natalie  in  a  hushed 
voice.  Lorraine  threw  her  arms  around  the 
younger  woman's  neck.  "Oh,  help  me  .  .  . 
help  me.  You  are  the  only  one  who  will  un- 
derstand. You  will  think  I  was  right,  won't 
you  ?  You  would  have  done  the  same.  I  shall 
go  mad  unless  you  help  me." 

Natalie  wrenched  herself  free.  "You  have 
done  a  dreadful  thing,"  she  said. 

Lorraine  collapsed  on  the  couch,  sobbing 
frantically.  But  Natalie  stood  before  her  cold 


156       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

and  stern,  staring  down  at  the  crumpled 
mourning. 

"You  have  done  a  dreadful  thing." 

"You  say  that?"  came  from  Lorraine  in  bro- 
ken sounds. 

"You  listened  to  Germaine,  that  romantic 
child?  You  took  your  love  and  threw  it  away 
because  you  were  not  brave  enough  to  keep  it ! 
Oh,  Lorraine,  how  could  you?  You  sent  a  man 
out  to  die  because  you  were  afraid  to  let  him 
live!  Oh,  Lorraine!  You  dared  go  to  a 
man  and  say,  'If  you  love  me,  go  out  and  take 
a  gun  and  kill.'  You  deserve  the  suffering  that 
must  be  yours  to  the  end  of  your  life.  You 
deserve  it."  She  saw  the  fallen  Christ,  the 
red-bearded  artist  standing  among  the  ruins; 
she  saw  deep  into  his  outraged  heart.  And 
her  anger  sank  to  pity.  She  looked  sadly  at 
Lorraine:  "What  have  you  done?" 

And  in  a  sudden  shriek  that  tore  through  the 
gathering  darkness  Lorraine  answered:  "You 
tell  me  that,  Natalie?  .  .  .  You?  I  had  put 
all  my  faith  in  you!  I  know  what  your  love 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       157 

has  made  of  Pierre.  I  know  what  Pierre  was 
the  night  before  he  left.  And  I  know  what  he 
was  after  you  had  talked  to  him  that  morning. 
He  has  written  me  how  you  inspire  him.  How 
can  you  condemn  me?" 

Natalie  thrust  out  her  hand  as  if  to  protect 
herself.  But  Lorraine,  raising  herself  on  her 
elbow,  her  tear-stained  face  contracted  in  a  pas- 
sion of  despair,  raved  on : 

"He's  gone.  Yes,  I  sent  him!  But  all  the 
other  women  were  sending  their  men.  You 
sent  yours!" 

"I  never  sent  Pierre." 

"No,  but  you  believed  that  he  had  to  go. 
And  if  he  had  failed,  you  would  not  have  loved 
him  as  much.  I  saw  your  face  when  he  said 
good-by." 

Then  Natalie  dropped  on  her  knees  before 
Lorraine,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  limp  veil. 
The  crepe  smelt  of  musty,  dead  things.  The 
stale  odor  mounted  through  her  nostrils  and 
filled  her  being  with  a  sense  of  suffocation. 
Deep  in  the  dark  behind  her  closed  lids  glim- 


158       CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

mered  awful  visions  of  men  with  blazing  eyes 
and  men  with  tragic  eyes  and  open  wounds 
and  pale  upraised  hands  pointing  .  .  . 

Lorraine's  sobs  strangled  and  ceased.  The 
room  was  profoundly  quiet  and  dark.  And 
the  bells  of  Saint-Germain  rang  as  if  they 
would  never  stop,  as  if  their  voices  must  reach 
the  ends  of  the  earth  awaking  sleepers.  They 
told  men  that  there  was  no  way  of  escaping 
fate.  They  told  women  that  there  was  no  use 
in  weeping. 

The  two  women  lay  immobile  in  the  gloom. 
At  last  Natalie  raised  her  head. 

"Poor  Lorraine,"  she  murmured. 

Lorraine's  hand  crept  out  and  found  a 
friend's  hand  ready. 

"Poor  Natalie." 

So  clasping  each  other's  hands  as  if  the 
human  contact  saved  them  they  clung  a  while 
longer,  each  separate  in  her  hopeless  introspec- 
tion. What  had  been  broken  could  never  be 
mended. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       159 

"He  will  not  come  back,"  Lorraine  whis- 
pered once. 

"No,  he  will  not  come  back." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  forgive  me?" 

"Yes." 

"What  have  I  done?" 

Natalie  answered:  "What  have  we  all 
done?" 

"You  have  Pierre." 

"Yes,  I  have  Pierre.  But  he  may  never 
come  back." 

"At  least  he  will  have  loved  you." 

"I  would  rather  he  lived." 

"He  will  live,  Natalie.    I  know  he  will  live." 

They  wept  in  one  another's  arms. 

Pierre  wrote : 

"I  don't  know  why,  Beloved,  but  I  am  happy 
to-day.  I  have  not  been  so  happy  for  a  long 
time.  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  I  am  quiet,  because 
there  is  so  much  death  around  me.  There  are 
men  here  who  have  learned  to  hate,  and  men 
who  will  never  know  how  to  hate.  They  are 


160      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

the  saddest  of  all,  because  they  kill  the  enemy 
pitying  the  man.  But  it  is  not  to  talk  of  war 
that  I  write  you  now.  Last  night  I  was  on 
watch.  The  feeling  of  the  Thing  was  there. 
I  knew  it  stalked  close  by,  with  squinting  eye 
and  cocked  gun  ready  to  reach  the  heart.  The 
Hunter  hunted.  But  the  universe  repudiated 
him.  Like  a  grave  parent  who  rebukes  an 
erring  son,  not  with  angry  words  but  with  ma- 
jestic disdain  of  indifference,  the  earth  with- 
drew in  a  stately  secrecy.  The  sky  had  re- 
ceded until  it  no  longer  seemed  to  cover  us,  but 
stretched  unattainable,  remote,  an  Elysian  field 
flowered  with  gold,  beyond  the  reach  of  our 
reddened  feet.  The  land  was  mute  and  cold 
and  scentless,  as  if  it  had  locked  in  its  being, 
out  of  sight  or  touch  of  man,  all  its  life-giving 
fruits.  The  withered  silhouettes  of  trees  were 
skeletons  from  which  the  spirit  has  gone.  And 
we  were  left  to  forge  over  a  frozen  surface 
unchided  and  unloved. 

"But  I  found  peace  in  this  awesome  solitude. 
You  will  understand,  Beloved,  when  I  tell  you 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       161 

that  the  link  between  me  and  God,  between  me 
and  man,  slackened  until  I  no  longer  felt  kin- 
ship with  either.  And  there  alone,  I  was  a  tiny 
machine  ticking  away  a  mindless  record  of  a 
thing  called  life,  without  regret  or  desire.  Had 
a  bullet  found  me  then  I  should  have  fallen 
passively,  satisfied  to  lie  unburied  on  the  calm 
surface  of  the  universe.  I  thought  how  strange 
it  was  that  man  has  two  eyes,  two  ears,  two 
arms  and  legs,  but  only  one  heart.  I  was  as 
solitary  and  unique  as  my  heart  and  would 
have  ended  with  it,  a  perishable  image  of  a 
deathless  God. 

"Natalie,  the  entity  that  is  me,  that  is  Pierre 
masquerading  in  a  uniform,  can  never  solve 
the  riddle,  or  change  the  world,  or  quicken  the 
dead,  or  save  himself. 

"To-night  we  have  a  night  attack.  What 
will  the  night  say?  And  will  the  stars  draw 
nearer  to  match  with  the  cannon's  glare  or  will 
they  be  so  many  closed  eyes,  masked,  that  they 
may  not  see  our  deeds?  Adieu,  Beloved." 


X 

NEWS  came  to  Natalie  that  Pierre  was 
badly  wounded  and  had  been  sent  to 
a  hospital  in  the  city. 

Then  there  were  terrible  days. 

Felix,  awkwardly  tender  in  his  solicitude, 
and  pale,  tragic  Lorraine  circled  about  her  dis- 
pensing comfort.  But  Natalie  did  not  need 
their  comfort.  She  had  a  refrain  of  her  own — 
"He  will  get  well  .  .  .  he  will  get  well."  And 
in  this  reiteration  she  found  a  surer  message 
than  in  all  their  cautious  words.  Deep  in  her 
heart  she  felt  relief:  such  a  relief  as  she  could 
not  share  with  any  one.  The  broken  thing  was 
well  out  of  it,  with  still  a  spark  of  life  to  do 
the  mending.  And  now  he  could  not  die.  She 
willed  his  spirit  to  conquer  tortured  flesh 
during  the  grim  weeks  when  she  might  not 
even  see  him.  She  sent  her  thought  driving 
through  space  to  reach  his  bedside  and  keep  a 

162 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       163 

sleepless  vigil.  Things  and  people  moved  about 
her  with  vague  silhouettes  and  vaguer  voices. 
She  saw  and  heard  realities  as  if  they  were 
figments  of  dull  dreams.  She  knew  only  one 
thing :  that  Pierre  no  longer  stood  in  the  crim- 
son trenches,  a  target  for  the  enemy.  The 
jealous  egoism  of  the  lover  blotted  out  all  other 
issues  but  the  fate  of  this  one  love.  Fighting 
millions  might  fill  the  universe  with  their  up- 
roar, if  their  din  spared  that  high,  thin  line 
upon  which  Pierre  lay  struggling  with  mor- 
tality. Let  them  fight!  Let  them  tear  the 
earth  to  pieces  and  put  it  together  again.  The 
armies  no  longer  wore  Pierre's  face.  They 
were  poor  strangers  marked  and  doomed.  His 
return  from  the  treacherous  regions  was  omen 
enough  of  his  destiny.  He  would  survive. 

Then  one  day  when  the  slender  thread  that 
held  his  spirit  to  the  shell  was  at  the  snapping 
point,  and  Natalie  knelt  at  the  narrow  gate- 
way through  which  he  might  soon  pass  never  to 
return,  a  blighting  sense  of  her  selfishness  came 
upon  her.  And  she  was  ashamed  because  in 


164       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

her  supreme  confidence  she  had  presumed  to 
separate  Pierre  from  his  agonizing  comrades. 
If  he  died  or  lived  he  was  after  all  no  more 
than  a  blade  of  grass  before  the  relentless 
thresher.  The  red  plain  was  thick  with  such 
as  he.  She  prayed  that  he  might  live,  vowing 
her  vision  to  a  broader  consciousness  of  issues 
should  he  be  spared.  The  immense  drama  in- 
cluded him  and  herself.  She  could  not  map 
out  her  peace  of  mind  upon  her  private  hopes. 
Should  he  go  or  stay,  the  questions  depending 
on  his  course  were  farther  reaching  than  one 
man  saved  or  lost.  Or  so  Natalie  came  to  be- 
lieve as  she  struggled  with  the  problems  that 
confronted  her. 

The  crisis  passed  in  his  favor.  Still  secluded 
on  the  misty  island  of  pain  where  she  might  not 
follow  him,  he  could  not  see  or  know  her  for 
many  weeks.  She  was  left  to  beckon  his  weak 
spirit  back  to  the  main  shore  without  hearing 
his  answer.  But  she  was  left  also  to  hear  the 
unquelled  thunder  of  sullen  forces  battling  for 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       165 

supremacy.  And  because  Pierre  was  merci- 
fully removed  from  the  iron  ranks  that  held 
the  land,  because  one  battered  soldier  was 
taken  from  the  masses,  the  unleashed  violence 
of  men  was'  none  the  less  ready  to  worry  and 
to  maul  the  things  they  had  once  prized. 

She  felt  that  Pierre's  need  of  her  would 
emerge  from  this  trial,  more  urgent  than  ever. 
And  again  she  faced  the  fear  that  he  might  see 
in  her  unquiet  spirit  a  reflection  of  his  own. 
She  grew  to  dread  the  meeting,  when  with 
yearning  eyes  he  would  probe  the  happy  shal- 
lows and  go  deeper  towards  the  dark  places, 
where  the  lie,  such  as  it  was,  lay  enshrined. 
If  in  discovering  it,  he  found  himself,  the  creed 
he  had  built  up  on  her  assurances  would  crack 
and  fall,  leaving  him  dismayed  among  his 
broken  gods.  He  would  have  fought  and  lost 
for  nothing.  And  their  love,  the  prop,  would 
have  received  a  mortal  blow.  Yet  try  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  believe  that  a  single  death 
could  bring  about  the  miracle  of  a  regenerated 
humanity.  She  had  told  Pierre  that  there  was 


166       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

beauty  in  a  bloody  cause,  and  that  all  the  youth 
of  his  martyred  country  would  by  their  sacrifice 
save  civilization.  She  had  humored  his  illusion, 
calling  it  nobler  names.  Now  he  was  back, 
and  if  there  were  to  be  a  reckoning,  his  faith 
would  be  at  stake. 

Then  came  the  day  she  had  been  waiting  for, 
when  that  beloved  heart  took  courage,  and  the 
frail  spark  burned  higher,  lighting  the  mind. 
And  Lorraine,  smiling  for  the  first  time  in 
many  weeks,  said  to  her: 

"You  can  see  Pierre  to-day.  He's  asking 
for  you.  I  have  arranged  things  so  that  he 
will  be  alone.  The  family  have  worn  him  out. 
Now  he  needs  you." 

Natalie  prepared  tremulously  for  the  visit, 
and  she  was  beautiful.  The  grace  of  early 
Spring  was  in  her  eyes.  She  wore  her  joy 
mysteriously,  but  it  gleamed  from  the  bright 
curve  of  her  lips,  through  the  pallor  of  her  face, 
infusing  a  faint  pink  into  her  cheeks.  It  flowed 
from  the  dusky  mass  of  her  hair  down  the  long 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       167 

nervous  lines  of  her  body.  It  transformed 
her  into  a  sentient  creature  freed  temporarily 
from  the  strain  that  had  so  long  drained  her 
vitality. 

She  carried  a  great  armful  of  narcissus. 
Their  milky  blossoms  sang  of  fields  and  of  blue 
sky.  They  discoursed  in  perfumes  of  love,  and 
life,  and  beauty,  ignoring  the  mid-winter  chill 
that  could  not  freeze  their  purity. 

And  as  she  passed  the  women  on  the  street, 
she  would  have  flung  her  happiness  at  them, 
as  a  child  tosses  a  rose  to  a  friendly  stranger. 
She  lived  the  moment  passionately,  for  once 
without  an  intruding  doubt.  But  when  she 
reached  the  House  of  Pain  she  faltered  in  her 
swift  winging,  a  quick  clutch  at  her  heart. 
There  in  the  white  domain  of  steel  instruments 
the  air  was  laden  with  unfamiliar  smells.  In 
discreet  corners  a  daub  of  red  betrayed  a  cast 
off  bandage.  A  glimpse  of  white  figures  has- 
tening on  their  way,  a  keen  passing  glance  from 
a  bearded  doctor,  a  sense  of  shrouded  expecta- 
tion, brought  her  sudden  consciousness  of  hov- 


168       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

ering  danger  held  at  bay.  She  climbed  the 
stairs  hugging  her  narcissus,  to  the  door  that 
separated  her  from  Pierre.  And  there  the  gen- 
tle nurse  left  her,  telling  her  to  knock  and 
enter.  „ 

She  paused  to  breathe,  then,  with  a  steady 
hand,  knocked.  And  the  voice  that  had  said 
good-by  eternities  ago  answered  her.  She 
stood  in  the  little  room.  She  saw  as  through 
a  mist  the  face  on  the  pillow,  and  stumbled 
forward,  her  milky  blossoms  dropping  on  the 
white  spread. 

"Pierre!" 

"Natalie!" 

His  hand  was  safe  within  hers,  held  as  one 
holds  a  treasure  never  to  be  released.  The 
weaker  fingers  nestled  in  her  palm.  She  looked 
into  the  dear  wasted  face,  where  hollows  dug 
by  the  grim  sculptor  lay  between  the  salient 
bones,  and  where  like  freshly  lit  torches  the 
eyes  burned  into  hers  their  wordless  gratitude. 
And  in  the  imperceptible  hush  that  followed 
their  first  greeting  she  found  her  Pierre.  The 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       169 

little  smile  of  parting  was  still  there,  moored 
to  his  lips.  His  voice,  as  she  had  imagined  it, 
traveling  from  the  past,  reached  her. 

"Beloved,  is  it  you?  .  .  .  really  you?" 

"It  is  really  me." 

"It  has  been  so  long!" 

"Too  long!" 

"I  thought  I  should  never  see  you  again. 
How  beautiful  you  are !  Natalie,  you  are  beau- 
tiful." He  touched  the  blossoms.  "And  these ! 
.  .  .  You  remember  that  I  loved  them !" 

"Oh,  Pierre!" 

"I  have  so  much  to  tell  you.  Your  letters, 
Beloved  .  .  .  you  will  never  know  what  they 
meant  to  me." 

"Brave  Peter  the  Knight." 

His  voice  rose  to  a  troubled  note.  "But 
I'm  not  brave,  Natalie.  I  must  tell  you  that 
I'm  not  brave."  And  now  she  saw  strange 
ghosts  brooding  in  his  eyes,  things  that  had  not 
been  there  before.  She  saw  the  bandaged 
head,  the  bandaged  shoulder,  and  the  long  still 
outlines  of  his  body  beneath  the  covering.  She 


170       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

would  have  cried  out  then — "Oh,  Pierre,  what 
have  they  done  to  you?"  But  the  gladness  in 
his  face  arrested  her. 

And  she  waited  to  unburden  her  heart. 

Then,  as  if  he  were  afraid  that  he  would  not 
have  time  to  tell  her  all  he  had  to  say,  he  began 
to  speak  quickly.  He  looked  to  her  with  mystic 
expectancy,  and  his  eyes  were  filled  with 
yearning. 

"Beloved,  you  remember  my  last  letter  to 
you?  I  told  you  I  was  happy.  But  I  did 
not  tell  you  why.  I  was  happy  because  I 
knew  that  night  was  the  last  for  me  .  .  .  out 
there.  I  was  so  tired.  I  had  given  all  I  could." 
The  clasp  of  his  fingers  tightened  around  hers. 
"Without  you,  I  could  not  have  given  so  much. 
I  didn't  want  to  fail  you.  Listen,  Natalie, 
and  try  not  to  despise  me.  Towards  the  end 
I  felt  so  useless.  I  was  there  with  the  others 
doing  all  I  could  .  .  .  but  it  was  not  enough. 
The  men  I  loved  the  best  died  giving  more. 
You  remember  poor  old  Nassaud?"  he  said  in  a 
sad  voice. 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       171 

She  nodded,  stroking  his  hand. 

"Well,  they  were  such  fine  fellows.  And  I 
kept  wondering  if  their  death  had  settled  any- 
thing. I  couldn't  get  accustomed  to  the  fight- 
ing. The  noise  and  the  stench  of  it  sickened 
me.  The  waiting  in  the  trenches  with  life  re- 
duced to  its  elemental  instincts — that  was  the 
hardest.  Our  point  of  view  was  limited  to  the 
tiny  area  stretched  between  ourselves  and  them. 
There  seemed  nothing  left  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Only  your  letters  told  me  of  the  big 
cause  ..."  His  voice  trailed  off,  then  he  re- 
sumed: "The  Germans  were  nothing  but  men 
as  bored  with  it  all  as  we  were.  One  day  we 
took  a  prisoner,  and  when  he  talked,  it  was  as 
if  he  were  taking  words  out  of  our  mouths. 
Strange  that  an  enemy  should  speak  our  lan- 
guage !  But  of  course  I  knew  that  between  the 
men  and  the  Idea  of  evil  there  was  a  world. 
Our  spirits  were  at  war  .  .  .  our  bodies  paid. 
We  had  to  kill  them  ...  we  had  to  .  .  ."  He 
made  a  wild  movement,  winced  with  pain,  and 
sank  back  among  the  pillows. 


172      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

"Be  quiet,  Pierre,"  she  soothed. 

But  red  spots  glowed  on  his  cheeks;  his 
hands  trembled  in  hers.  "The  fate  of  the  world 
depended  on  us.  Didn't  it?  I  thought  it  all 
out  .  .  .  some  day  I'll  tell  you.  Men  were  the 
pawns.  But  I  was  too  tired  that  night  even 
to  be  a  pawn.  When  I  ...  climbed  out  of 
the  trench,  I  thought  I'd  go  running  straight 
ahead,  and  I  prayed  to  God,  Natalie,  that  I 
should  drop.  I  had  my  bayonet  ready.  I  held 
it  as  if  it  were  your  hand.  It  would  have 
stabbed  the  first  man  in  my  way.  The  sky,  the 
earth  were  on  fire.  The  whistle  and  the  screech 
of  shells  .  .  .  the  madness  .  .  .  the  night, 
the  dripping  blood  and  smoke,  and  I  a  lonely 
desperate  soul  racing  through  it,  stumbling 
over  bodies,  crying  aloud,  'God,  God,  God!' 
as  I  ran.  I  think  I  killed  once.  I  didn't  seem 
to  be  touching  earth  or  to  be  ...  the  thing 
called  man.  The  evil  of  hell  was  on  us  ... 
In  all  the  raging,  awful  place  there  wasn't  one 
sane  eye,  one  lucid  brain.  Then,  it  was  as  if 
I  were  suddenly  forced  into  sleep,  violently 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       173 

thrust  into  unconsciousness.  ...  I  don't  re- 
member. .  .  .  Only  long  afterwards  I  woke 
to  dreadful  pain  and  saw  a  dead  German's  face 
close  to  mine,  twisted  in  a  petrified  scream  of 
hate.  And  around  his  neck  hung  a  locket 
with  a  picture  of  three  children  in  it.  His  .  .  . 
legs  were  torn  off." 

"Don't!"  broke  from  Natalie,  and  she  cov- 
ered her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me  ...  I  wanted  you  to  know 
...  I  was  not  brave.  I  fainted  then.  They 
must  have  found  me."  Little  beads  of  sweat 
stood  out  on  his  forehead  beneath  the  rim  of  his 
bandage.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  there  was  no 
more  strength  left  in  him. 

"You  shouldn't  ...  you  shouldn't  remem- 
ber," groaned  Natalie. 

"Beloved,  did  I  do  my  duty?" 

"Yes,  you  did  your  duty  .  .  .  and  it's  over." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  she  had  told  him 
what  he  wanted  most  to  hear.  She  thought  he 
was  asleep  and  sat  very  still,  holding  his  damp 
hand. 


174      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

It  was  over  then.  He  was  back  from  the 
awful  sunless  land.  He  had  not  forgotten  to 
smile  or  to  call  her  his  beloved.  But  his  mind 
was  a  fragile,  sick  thing  that  must  be  coaxed 
back  to  health.  She  saw  the  things  she  would 
have  to  do  if  she  wished  to  save  the  faith  he 
had  kept  immaculate  for  her  sake.  More  than 
ever  she  must  uphold  him,  keep  him  from  the 
horror  and  despair  that  filled  her  own  heart. 
She  would  talk  to  him  of  beauty.  She  would 
preach  life  and  joy.  She  would  make  him  and 
herself  forget.  For  they  had  earned  their 
peace. 

She  saw  his  lips  move  and  bent  closer. 

"Speak  to  me,  Beloved  .  .  .  Tell  me  about 
the  city.  It  is  so  long  .  .  ." 

She  began  as  if  she  were  telling  a  fairy  story. 
"The  city  is  a  soft  gray.  Even  the  stones  look 
gray  as  if  they  were  made  of  mist.  The  gar- 
dens have  deep  purple  places,  rich  as  plums, 
where  dreamers  go  and  listen  for  the  Spring. 
The  Seine  is  the  color  of  crushed  grapes.  It 
flows  slowly  ...  so  slowly  beneath  the 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       175 

bridges,  as  if  it  were  carrying  heavy  secrets 
tangled  in  the  hidden  currents  like  dark  fish  in 
nets.  And  all  along  the  Quais  old  women  sell 
old  brown  books.  The  streets  are  gray  and 
often  glisten  with  wet.  But  on  the  corners 
flower-stalls  like  little  fires  spring  up  to  warm 
the  heart,  and  there  we  find  the  violets,  tulips 
colored  like  parrakeets,  daffodils  and  narcissus 
.  .  .  friends  whose  faces  always  smile  at  some 
approaching  summer.  And  next  to  them 
squats  the  chestnut-man  roasting  chestnuts  all 
day  long.  The  air  is  full  of  spicy  roast  and 
burning  charcoal.  Then  there  are  the  oranges ! 
Can  you  see  them  in  the  winter  twilight?  They 
burst  out  from  the  dusk  like  little  balls  of  gold 
...  a  heaped  treasure  guarded  by  an  old  fairy 
godmother.  Some  of  them  wear  funny  peaked 
caps.  They  tell  us  of  fruit  trees  far  away  in 
sun-soaked  lands.  They  make  us  think  of 
southern  seas  as  blue  as  jewels.  And  the  old 
fairy  godmother  sits  and  nods  beside  the  or- 
anges. Any  one  could  steal  her  treasure." 
Her  voice  grew  singsong  like  a  lullaby.  . 


176      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

Pierre  said  drowsily,  "Tell  me  more  ...  I 
like  to  hear  .  .  .  you  .  .  ."  She  went  on — 
"People  of  all  kinds  hurry  through  the  streets, 
so  quickly  you  can  hardly  see  their  eyes.  Each 
has  something  to  do  more  important  than  any- 
thing else.  They  are  telling  themselves  fairy 
tales  from  morning  to  night.  The  pretty 
woman  is  thinking  that  no  other  woman  is  as 
pretty,  that  the  new  dress  she  has  ordered  will 
be  the  loveliest  dress  in  the  city,  that  her  lover 
will  tell  her  all  her  life  how  beautiful  she  is. 
The  young  man  is  thinking  that  he  will  pass  his 
examinations  and  be  famous  very  soon  and 
wear  a  decoration.  All  the  women  will  want 
him  to  love  them.  But  he  will  not  be  so  easily 
caught.  The  stout,  pompous  man  with  the  red 
ribbon  in  his  buttonhole  is  thinking  that  surely 
he  will  be  made  a  minister  before  he  dies,  or 
that  he  has  invested  his  fortune  with  astonish- 
ing foresight,  or  that  his  wines  are  better  than 
any  others,  or  that  he  can  really  not  afford  to 
know  So-and-So.  The  mothers  are  thinking 
that  their  children  are  the  most  beautiful  and 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       177 

the  most  brilliant  creatures  of  their  generation, 
that  they  will  be  Princesses  and  Generals  and 
Presidents.  All  these  people  pass  and  pass 
one  another  on  the  streets,  thinking  how  clever, 
how  good,  how  wise  they  are."  She  ended  in 
a  whisper. 

The  little  wrinkles  and  lines  in  Pierre's  face 
were  smoothed  out.  He  lay  breathing  quietly, 
the  hand  in  hers  relaxed.  She  lifted  it  as  if  it 
were  a  fragile  thing  and  put  it  on  the  bed. 
He  stirred  but  did  not  wake.  He  looked  like 
a  young  monk  after  a  long  fast.  His  thin 
upraised  face  was  whiter  than  the  circling  ban- 
dages, and  infinitely  pure  with  an  ascetic  grace 
that  softened  angles  and  hollows. 

As  Natalie  studied  him  her  tears  brimmed 
over  as  from  a  full  cup,  rolling  silently  down 
her  cheeks.  She  wept  to  find  him  so  gentle, 
so  resigned.  If  he  were  as  men  were  meant  to 
be,  then  other  men  were  miserable  examples  of 
a  distorted  humanity.  But  he  was  rare,  and 
could  never  fit  his  wistful  spirit  to  flagrant 
crudities.  Then  what  must  be  his  fate? 


The  state  of  men  was  savage,  covered  thinly 
by  a  decent  disguise.  Their  deeds  sprang  from 
primeval  instincts,  deformed  by  scheming 
brains.  In  cycles  to  come  she  saw  them  still 
battling  for  illusions,  felling  one  another  with 
prodigious  weapons  yet  to  be  invented,  squab- 
bling over  the  earth  that  so  often  confuted 
their  cunning  arguments.  Children  of  nature 
.  .  .  yes:  but  nature  that  took  no  account  of 
season,  nature  that  warred  eternally  with  har- 
mony. What  were  they  after?  What  did  they 
want?  She  saw  their  goodness  thwarted,  their 
wickedness  extolled.  She  saw  dreamers  snared 
and  simple  souls  confused.  The  lumbering 
mass  that  flapped  and  squirmed  over  disputed 
ground,  squeaking  their  puny  ambitions  to  a 
patient  God,  could  never  resolve  the  gigantic 
problems  risen  from  their  megalomania.  Was 
man  to  be  forever  the  enemy  of  man  until 
through  centuries  of  slaughter  and  weaken- 
ing, in  dwindling  hosts,  they  reached  the  end,' 
where  the  two  last  mortals,  debilitated  rem- 
nants of  proud  races,  stood  glaring  at  one 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       179 

another  across  a  last  frontier:  Cain  and  Abel 
torn  with  savage  rivalry  over  the  last  illusion, 
there  to  meet  and  grapple  murderously! 

The  present  talk  of  nations  was  fine  and 
promising.  It  rolled  in  victorious  nouns  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  it  swelled  in  alien  languages 
from  pole  to  pole,  changing  its  accent  to  suit 
a  race.  Economists  computed  while  popula- 
tions fought.  And  the  result  was  sullied  money 
and  dead  men.  The  Christ  idea  haunted 
choked  cathedrals,  seeking  a  disciple  among 
the  kneeling  crepe.  But  Christ  had  ceased 
to  be  a  practical  Master.  He  was  the  gentle 
Consoler  who  had  died  in  vain  to  save  man- 
kind. Suffering  was  His  message,  and  their 
excuse. 

Pierre  woke  to  break  the  melancholy  reflec- 
tions of  his  Natalie,  and  to  melt  her  with  his 
smile. 

"You've  cured  me  already,"  he  said  in  a 
stronger  voice.  And  everything  forgotten  but 
his  need  of  her,  she  turned  a  recovered  radi- 
ance full  upon  him. 


XI 

PIERRE  was  back  in  the  House  of  the 
Bourdons.  Then  began  his  convales- 
cence. But  all  was  not  as  before. 
Seven  tragic  months  had  passed  between  his 
going  and  his  return.  And  his  homecoming 
was  not  as  he  had  imagined  it.  The  Bourdons 
applied  themselves  to  a  strict  observance  of 
national  disaster,  including  death  and  financial 
loss.  They  were  ready  for  any  sacrifice  if  in 
the  making  of  it  they  could  uphold  a  patriotic 
standard.  When  Pierre  was  wounded  they 
considered  they  had  made  a  just  donation  to 
France.  They  had  given  only  one  son.  They 
would  give  another  if  it  were  necessary. 

Pierre  was  in  no  mood  to  play  the  martial 
hero.  But  he  felt  constrained  to  take  the  cue. 
He  had  never  resisted  their  wishes,  much 
less  so  now  when  the  shadow  of  mourning  was 
upon  the  house.  He  was  grateful  to  them  also 

180 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       181 

for  their  efforts  to  surround  him  with  every 
care  and  consideration,  though  their  assiduous 
attendance  too  often  interfered  with  his  free- 
dom. He  felt  them,  in  an  inarticulate  way, 
striving  to  express  their  pride  in  him.  He 
would  have  told  them  how  unwarranted  their 
pride  was,  but  feared  to  hurt  them  deeply ;  and 
they  had  grown  old  since  Raymond's  death, 
though  they  would  not  have  acknowledged  it. 
With  his  son  Pierre's  return,  Jean  Bourdon 
found  again  the  booming  notes  of  confidence, 
the  stiff  carriage  of  his  shoulders,  the  rounded 
chest  and  assured  gestures  that  ranked  him  as 
head  of  the  House.  Madame  Bourdon  loos- 
ened the  pinched  lines  around  her  lips,  relaxed 
the  devout  resignation  of  her  manner,  resumed 
a  brisk  show  of  competency.  But  Pierre  saw 
that  they  were  only  mimicking  their  broken 
selves,  replacing  vanished  personalities  by  a 
fictitious  display  of  optimism.  And  his  heart 
was  sad. 

He   wanted   to   talk  to  them  of  Natalie. 
When  he  mentioned  her,  however,  he  encoun- 


182      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

tered  sudden  reserve.  It  was  as  if  he  had  in- 
troduced a  stranger,  without  regard  for  their 
feelings,  into  the  closed  circle  of  their  mourn- 
ing. He  was  disconcerted  by  the  unspoken  re- 
buke and  not  yet  strong  enough  to  argue  with 
them.  But  Lorraine,  to  whom  he  went  at  last 
for  advice,  said  with  a  cheerless  little  smile, 
"Wait,  dear  Pierre,  before  you  speak  to  them. 
They  are  not  ready.  .  .  .  See  your  Natalie  as 
often  as  you  can,  and  then  some  day  when  you 
are  stronger,  go  to  them  and  tell  them  your 
plans.  .  .  .  Not  now." 

Pierre  thought  that  she  was  wise.  They 
were  not  ready,  and  he  dreaded  giving  them 
more  pain.  But  he  suffered  from  this  thing 
that  lay  between  them,  and  he  was  only  happy 
when  he  could  be  with  Natalie. 

The  first  weeks  he  could  not  often  escape 
from  the  family.  He  felt  the  habit  of  duty 
towards  them,  and  he  knew  what  they  ex- 
pected of  him.  Germaine  hung  about  him, 
volubly  affectionate,  disserting  on  her  unique 
theme:  Robert  de  Gency's  perfection.  The 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       183 

children,  Jean  Paul,  Henri  and  Rose  Marie, 
wide-eyed,  timid,  stared  at  their  wounded  uncle 
until,  their  awe  dissipated,  they  filled  the  rooms 
with  noisy  mimic  warfare  for  his  benefit. 
Grandmother  Bourdon  accepted  his  presence 
as  one  of  the  unquestioned  events  in  her 
shriveling  world,  where  sight  and  sound  were 
failing,  and  young  faces  were  reflections  of  a 
ghostly  past.  Only  Louise  Bourdon,  an  ab- 
sorbed joyless  mother,  nursed  her  newly  born 
with  blank  side-glances  at  intruders.  She 
barely  acknowledged  Pierre's  return.  It  was 
as  if,  with  Raymond's  going,  a  nerve  had 
snapped,  disconnecting  her  with  the  rest  of 
the  world.  She  lived  in  twilight. 

Lorraine,  carrying  her  incurable  regret  like 
a  secret  disease,  served  Pierre  as  if  she  loved 
him  but  could  not  share  her  pain  with  him  or 
any  man.  At  his  first  question  she  had  an- 
swered briefly,  "He's  gone,"  and  would  say 
no  more.  But  Germaine  told  Pierre  a  version 
of  the  story,  and  Pierre  was  infinitely  tender 
to  Lorraine  afterwards. 


184      CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

Sometimes  at  night,  when  'he  had  not  seen 
Natalie  during  the  day,  he  would  write  her, 
because  he  was  very  lonely  and  only  she  could 
understand.  "I  should  be  happy,  Beloved,"  he 
wrote,  "I  am  getting  well.  To-day  I  could 
lift  my  arm  higher  than  yesterday.  I  feel  life 
renewing,  as  if  the  fountain,  clear  of  all  im- 
purities, lifted  me  on  its  sunny  jet.  And  in 
my  heart  the  birds  who  used  to  sing  are  sing- 
ing fresh  songs.  Youth  is  like  a  beautiful  day. 
The  body  partakes  of  its  delight,  even  when 
the  mind  remains  aloof,  sharpened  by  some 
private  sorrow.  My  physical  sensations  are 
numberless.  The  homely  details  of  living  have 
become  great  adventures  upon  which  I  embark 
each  morning  when  I  open  my  eyes.  I  am 
alive.  That  is  the  first  sensation.  I  undergo 
it  to  its  uttermost,  sometimes  with  a  hand  on 
my  heart,  conscious  of  each  breath  drawn  from 
the  deep  wells  of  being.  My  eyes  take  in  the 
light.  You  will  laugh  at  me,  Beloved,  but  I 
count  the  furniture  in  my  little  room  as  a  miser 
counts  his  gold  to  be  sure  none  has  been  stolen 


during  the  night.  I  touch  the  book  beside  my 
bed,  the  flowers  in  a  vase.  I  dress  slowly,  us- 
ing my  good  arm  as  a  musician  does  a  cher- 
ished instrument  with  an  increasing  sense  of 
power.  My  breakfast  seems  to  me  a  wonderful 
thing,  to  be  savored  as  if  it  were  a  new  fra- 
grance. My  mother  watches  me  with  her  kind 
smile  and  calls  me  'gourmand.'  It  isn't  the 
food;  it  is  the  idea  that  I  can  eat,  that  I  am 
alive.  The  city  is  a  magic  place.  How  can  I 
tell  you  the  acute  impressions  that  strike  my 
eyes,  my  ears,  my  nostrils  ?  I  am  like  any  fool- 
ish woman  lingering  in  front  of  shop  windows. 
I  am  drawn  by  their  glitter.  Who  would  be- 
lieve, Natalie,  that  there  are  so  many  things 
for  sale?  I  gape  at  a  jeweler's  shop  like  any 
savage.  I  am  drunk  with  the  odors  of  damp, 
of  humanity,  of  stray  scents  that  bring  me  the 
moldy  smell  of  fields  and  stables.  I  am  dizzy 
with  the  spectacle  of  motors,  horses,  people 
— tangled,  moving  in  unfinished  circles  that 
never  close.  I  tingle  with  the  discords  that 
strike  notes  of  life,  an  incomprehensible  jargon 


186      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

no  one  stops  to  translate.  This  then  is  the 
city;  And  I  am  part  of  it.  This  then  is  the 
chief,  the  visible  manifestation  of  life:  a  med- 
ley of  man  and  his  playthings,  his  necessities 
renewed  endlessly,  endlessly  productive. 

"If  it  were  so !  But  when  I  have  drunk  to 
its  last  sweet  drop  the  sensation  of  life,  I  be- 
gin to  think.  Then  my  eyes  change,  Natalie, 
as  with  a  click  the  machine  adjusts  itself  to 
another  vision.  I  still  see  the  city,  but  it  is 
bleeding  as  if  it  had  been  pierced  by  a  thou- 
sand javelins.  The  women  wear  black.  Their 
faces  are  like  little  mirrors  in  which  I  see  al- 
ways the  same  grave.  Those  who  wear  brighter 
colors  look  like  flowers  out  of  season,  costly, 
self-conscious.  The  uniforms  go  by  like  bits  of 
a  flag  that  is  growing  smaller  as  the  pieces  are 
torn  off.  Who  will  put  it  together  again? 
The  infirm,  the  diseased,  the  anemic,  the  old 
men,  display  their  weaknesses  as  if  to  explain 
why  they  are  still  alive.  Where  is  the  youth 
of  France?  Where  is  France  in  this  city  that 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE      187 

is  being  drained?  The  external  appearances  of 
life  are  here.  There  are  people  who  buy  and 
people  who  sell.  The  show  is  fair,  as  if  a  few 
miles  away  the  soul  of  a  nation  were  not  being 
riddled  with  shots.  But  the  sound  of  killing 
mingles  with  the  hubbub  of  traffic.  In  sneaks 
among  the  living,  humming  its  monotone.  It 
raps  on  the  shop  windows,  mocking  the  fu- 
tility of  wares.  What  use  is  this  jewel,  this 
flower? 

"Humanity  is  more  inaccessible  than  God, 
Natalie.  We  are  of  it :  it  is  never  with  us  .  .  . 
always  beyond  on  its  mad  race.  Sometimes 
I  think  we  never  meet  it  face  to  face,  even  in 
the  enemy.  We  fight  an  elusive  evil.  You 
say  it  is  tyranny  we  fight.  Then  must  we  crush 
humanity  .  .  .  our  friend,  our  enemy?  .  .  . 
There  is  no  good  in  my  reasoning.  I  am  an 
atavic  animal.  I  owe  my  life  to  the  Bourdons 
and  to  France.  I  have  not  yet  paid  my  debt. 
I  am  alive.  But,  Beloved,  am  I  happy?  Only 
you  can  make  me  believe  I  am." 


188       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

Pierre  was  right.  He  was  an  atavic  animal. 
The  Bourdon  blood  was  in  him,  the  Bourdon 
spirit  urged  him  on.  His  mind  alone  pleaded 
separate  functions  that  kept  him  an  awakened 
entity  struggling  against  the  confining  bonds 
of  a  race.  But  at  times  he  yielded  to  the  pres- 
sure of  kinship,  adopting  a  cause  with  the 
phrases  and  gestures  of  his  father. 

When,  as  often  happened,  he  and  Jean  Bour- 
don went  out  to  walk,  they  merged  identities  in 
a  single  pace,  a  single  expression.  They 
walked  as  owner  and  heir  treading  their  land. 
Each  represented  the  other's  worth  in  society. 
Pierre  was  the  army,  Jean  Bourdon  the  bour- 
geoisie, the  industrial  who  has  profited  and 
now  pays  a  citizen's  fee.  They  walked  with 
the  manner  of  men  who  are  acquitting  them- 
selves honorably  of  a  duty.  They  talked  poli- 
tics. They  were  of  the  same  opinion.  Jean 
Bourdon  tore  down  governments  and  put  them 
up  again.  Pierre  echoed  without  much  con- 
viction. Pierre  pointed  out  the  beauty  of  a 
monument,  a  building.  His  father  agreed 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       189 

importantly.  France  was  their  refrain,  France 
before  the  war  and  after:  what  prospects  would 
attend  victory,  what  art,  industry,  commerce, 
would  follow  the  annihilation  of  the  "Bar- 
barians." And  in  their  golden  plans,  built 
with  the  ardent  heart  of  a  people,  from  ruins 
burst  cities,  from  graves  prosperity.  The  spirit 
of  France  surrounded  them  reassuringly.  Its 
history  loomed  in  stone.  The  plumes  of  an- 
cient chivalry  waved  on  the  blue  helmets  of 
modern  warriors.  The  wit  of  generations 
sparkled  in  the  mouths  of  urchins.  France  was 
everywhere.  And  in  the  tragic  epoch  where 
world  issues  were  at  stake,  where  human  mis- 
ery, ambition,  grandeur  and  folly  ran  riot 
among  men,  the  people  of  France,  true  to  their 
greater  selves,  fought  for  their  Latin  heritage, 
in  the  only  way  they  knew  how. 

Jean  Bourdon  believed  in  his  sons  just  as 
he  believed  in  France.  One  son  was  dead,  one 
wounded,  one  in  daily  peril.  But  behind  them 
came  Jean  Paul,  Henri  and  the  newly  born 
Raymond.  As  he  had  lived,  so  they  would 


190       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

live,  and  die  if  necessary.  He  did  not  see 
them  or  France  any  mightier,  any  wiser  at 
dealing  with  economic  problems  once  the  strug- 
gle ended;  he  saw  Alsace-Lorraine  recon- 
quered, and  the  sons  of  his  sons  upholding  the 
name  of  Bourdon  throughout  shifting  genera- 
tions. 

As  he  walked  with  his  son  Pierre,  he  counted 
the  sympathetic  looks  of  strangers,  and,  se- 
cure beside  the  uniform,  he  reaped  the  benefits 
of  sacrifice.  But  Pierre  had  no  such  innocent 
vanity.  He  walked  as  he  had  been  taught  to 
do  beside  his  father,  sweetly  conscious  of  the 
worthy  man,  his  truant  thoughts  returning  ever 
to  Natalie,  whose  image  he  sought  now  to  as- 
sociate with  that  of  his  family. 

One  day  in  the  early  Spring,  a  letter,  his 
last,  reached  Germaine  from  Robert  de  Gency. 
It  was  his  farewell.  He  had  v6lunteered  to 
go  upon  a  mission  from  which  there  was  little 
chance  of  his  return. 

He  wrote:      "My  little  Germaine,  forgive 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       191 

me.  If  I  never  see  you  again,  believe  that  I 
have  done  my  duty  as  a  soldier,  putting  my 
country  first,  even  before  you.  You  would 
not  have  it  otherwise.  We  might  have  been 
very  happy.  But  if  I  had  failed  to  give  my 
best  to  France,  we  should  never  have  been 
happy;  and  if,  in  giving  my  best,  I  lose  my 
life,  you  must  also  give  your  best  and  bear 
the  loss  as  I  would  have  you — with  pride  and 
honor.  You  are  young,  my  dearest.  I  have 
grown  old  since  the  war.  I  have  dreamed  of 
our  home,  of  our  children.  Many  others  have 
dreamed  and  gone  dreaming  to  a  glorious 
death.  Perhaps  it  was  never  to  be.  Our  coun- 
try is  in  such  danger  that  perhaps  we  can- 
not save  it.  But  before  I  go,  I  want  to  tell 
you,  Germaine,  that  I  respect  my  enemies. 
In  the  beginning  I,  with  the  others,  despised 
them.  We  covered  them  with  vulgar  abuse. 
We  gave  them  no  credit  for  courage.  We  were 
wrong.  They  are  poor  men  like  ourselves, 
good  and  bad,  fighting  because  they  have  to. 
If  they  had  known  what  war  is  to-day,  many 


192       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

of  them  would  not  have  gone.  But  it  is  too 
late.  They  are  fed  with  lies.  They  tell  each 
other  lies  to  keep  their  spirit  up.  The  world 
is  a  sad  place  to-day.  Who  would  have  thought 
it?  We  are  poor  beings,  forced  to  he  heroes 
or  to  die  cowards.  In  a  few  hours  Robert  de 
Gency  may  have  ceased  to  exist.  Yet  the  war 
will  go  on.  Be  good  to  my  family,  little  Ger- 
maine.  They  will  need  you.  Do  not  cry. 
Keep  me  in  your  heart  and  remember  that  I 
died  for  France." 

Germaine  lay  on  her  bed  tearlessly,  clasp- 
ing the  letter  to  her  breast.  Beside  her  Robert 
de  Gency 's  photograph  stood  draped  with  a 
small  flag.  She  lay  in  dreadful  silence,  with 
closed  eyes.  And  no  one  knew  the  mystery 
of  her  virgin  grief.  No  one  could  read  the 
stricken  young  face,  nor  break  the  gates  closed 
on  her  loss. 

Robert  de  Gency,  brave  in  a  spotless  uni- 
form, his  clean  sword  uplifted  in  the  sun,  rode 
backwards  and  forwards  in  her  empty  brain. 
He  was  not  dead.  The  secret  dreams  of  youth, 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       193 

the  worship  of  the  hero,  rose  between  him  and 
the  telling  shot.  Beloved  life  was  not  clipt  in 
a  moment,  leaving  nothing.  Robert  would 
come  back,  brave  and  young,  to  speak  to  her 
of  victory.  Victory  dwelt  only  in  his  return. 
Death  came  to  older  men. 

The  enemy,  who  had  hitherto  been  a  vague 
threatening  nightmare,  invisible  and  alien,  a 
counter-force  against  which,  magnificently, 
France  in  the  image  of  Robert  de  Gency  had 
tilted  her  clean  vanquishing  steel,  became  a 
concrete  monster,  a  giant  crouching  on  the  land 
with  ^weapon  aimed  murderously  at  Robert's 
heart:  a  monster  whose  hate  for  Germaine  di- 
rected the  blow.  Robert  had  said,  "Poor  men !" 
No  man  was  poor  who  wantonly  destroyed 
love.  And  so  hate  entered  Germaine's  soul. 

Still  she  did  not  cry.  She  lay  among  the 
ruins  of  her  youth,  cursing  in  strange  form- 
less names  the  poor  thing  men  called  war. 

On  the  second  evening,  Pierre  tiptoed  into 
the  dark  little  room  and  took  her  hand.  At 
the  touch  of  a  man's  hand  she  shivered  as  if  a 


194      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

blade  had  found  her,  and  rising  like  a  young 
fury  from  her  despair,  hurled  wild  phrases 
at  him. 

"Kill  .  .  .  Kill  back!"  she  screamed.  "Kill 
them  .  .  .  every  one!  You  must  .  .  .  you 
must.  I  tell  you  to."  Her  shrill  voice  brought 
the  Bourdons,  haggard  with  her  pain,  rushing 
into  the  room.  They  found  her  facing  Pierre, 
her  fists  clenched,  her  face  twisted  in  demented 
grimace.  She  stamped  a  bare  foot  on  the 
ground.  Her  loosened  hair  stirred  as  if  a  wind 
were  in  it. 

"No  mercy!  You  .  .  .  you  go  out  and  find 
the  man,"  she  raved  to  Pierre,  who  was  trying 
in  vain  to  calm  her.  "Or  else  bring  Robert 
back.  No  ...  he  can't  come  back.  Kill  .  .  . 
kill  them.  I'll  be  glad." 

Madame  Bourdon  leaned  against  the  wall, 
a  hand  to  her  heart. 

"Dear  God,  the  child  is  mad.  My  poor  little 
Germaine  is  mad!" 

Lorraine  went  forward,  her  arm  out- 
stretched. "Germaine!" 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       195 

Germaine  turned  on  her  and  began  to  laugh. 
"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  Well,  you  sent  your  love 
out  too  ...  I  told  you  it  was  the  only  way. 
You  fool — to  have  listened  to  me.  .  .  .  He 
won't  come  back  now."  Her  voice  mounted. 
"Well,  if  he  doesn't  .  .  .  what  do  I  care?  Tell 
him  to  find  the  man  and  kill.  .  .  .  Let  them 
all  kill." 

Lorraine's  lips  moved,  but  she  made  no 
sound,  and  fell  back,  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

Then  suddenly  the  crazy  laughter  broke. 
Germaine  staggered,  fell  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed  and  wept  as  children  do  in  a  first  parox- 
ysm of  pain. 

"Thank  God,"  whispered  Jean  Bourdon. 
"She  will  be  better  now." 

Louise  Bourdon  walked  into  the  room.  Her 
thin  figure,  weighed  down  by  crepe,  moved 
slowly  like  Fate,  straight  over  to  Germaine. 
Only  once  she  spoke: 

"Leave  me  with  her." 

Their  eyes  signaled  and,  with  tacit  accord, 
they  obeyed.  One  after  the  other,  they  stole 


196      CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

out  of  the  room.  Pierre  was  the  last  to  go. 
Still  Germaine  wept  hopelessly,  her  body  given 
over  to  the  spasms  that  racked  her  like  a  frail 
branch  in  a  storm. 

Louise  knelt  beside  her,  and  Pierre  left  the 
two.  Soon  there  was  silence.  And  all  that 
night  there  was  silence,  while  Louise  Bour- 
don kept  mysterious  watch  over  the  girl. 

Pierre  could  not  sleep.  Germaine's  mad 
cries  rang  in  his  ears. 

"Kill  them  ...  kill  every  one!" 
And  the  horror  was  upon  him.  For  the 
greater  was  his  grief,  the  less  he  wanted  to  kill. 
These  things  could  not  be  mended.  Yet  the 
cry  was  there,  so  thrilling  that  it  pierced  him 
like  a  mortal  wound.  His  arm,  still  lifeless, 
strove  to  rise,  as  if  the  weight  of  a  gun  were 
on  it.  He  heard  the  voices  of  his  comrades 
in  the  night,  saw  their  strained  red  eyes  fixed 
on  a  distant  line  of  fire.  He  feared  to  hear 
them  call  him,  and  drew  the  sheets  over  his 
head,  that  he  might  evoke  Natalie's  image  to 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       19T 

his  rescue.  But  as  he  saw  her,  she  too  appeared 
an  avenging  spirit  pointing  to  the  smoking 
chaos  where  among  poisonous  gases  men  reeled 
and  died.  He  reached  out  like  a  sick  child, 
begging  a  life-giving  cup  to  quench  his  thirst. 
Fever  consumed  him. 

He  lived  again  the  parting  when  on  the 
threshold  of  the  unknown  he  had  turned  to 
Natalie,  received  her  blessing,  and  gone  out 
to  accomplish  a  sacred  duty  to  mankind.  He 
felt  that  he  had  failed.  Even  his  death  could 
not  have  redeemed  humanity.  Yet  he  re- 
mained an  atom  and  a  factor  in  the  mighty 
struggle  that  was  raging  even  now  over  land 
and  sea  and  air.  He  could  never  detach  him- 
self from  it.  He  tried  to  build  a  crystal  ca- 
thedral from  the  remnants  of  the  battlefield. 
He  tried  to  build  a  shrine  where,  helpless  and 
disabled,  he  might  still  pray  for  future  genera- 
tions. But  the  obsession  of  death  was  with  him : 
death  in  myriad  forms.  He  dared  not  tell 
this  to  Natalie.  Her  vision  was  the  surer. 


198      CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

i 
She  sensed  the  nobler  issues  and  she  shamed 

him. 

He  groped  there  in  the  night  reconstructing 
his  faith  as  in  the  beginning,  born  from  her 
love.  And  like  a  child  inventing  a  fairy  story, 
he  wove  from  his  own  yearning  an  ideal  world 
risen  from  sacrifice. 

The  enemy  of  mankind  was  defeated.  The 
land,  freed  from  an  invader,  lifted  its  crushed 
fruits  in  fecund  bloom.  The  patient  labor  of 
men  and  women  reconstructed  villages,  erected 
new  churches  to  a  grateful  God;  governments 
reformed  laws,  shifted  unjust  taxes,  welded 
industries  in  friendly  cooperation,  mingled 
arts,  shared  the  seas,  profited  fairly  by  one 
another's  products,  encouraged  free  thought  in 
little  countries,  and  by  generous  consent  set 
a  limit  to  armies  and  navies.  In  a  solemn  union 
joined  together  on  the  wreckage  of  battlefields, 
nations,  with  fraternal  accord,  banished  for- 
ever the  beast  they  had  conceived,  and  set  to 
evolving  a  final  and  ultimate  civilization.  For 
this,  Raymond,  Robert  de  Gency,  Nassaud, 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       199 

Lodec  and  millions  of  others  had  died.     For 
this  he  would  have  died  gladly. 

So  shaping  an  exultant  vision  of  peace,  and 
dedicating  it  to  Natalie,  when  dawn  came, 
Pierre  closed  his  eyes  and  slept  quietly. 


XII 

ABOVE  everything  Natalie  wanted 
Pierre  to  be  happy.  If  she  could 
have  done  so,  she  would  have  removed 
from  his  mind  all  thoughts  of  war.  His  mis- 
sion was  accomplished;  his  life,  once  risked, 
was  given  back  to  her.  But  with  the  gather- 
ing of  fresh  sap  in  his  veins,  the  rejuvenescence 
of  the  body,  his  spirit  halted  on  the  brink  of 
a  complete  joy.  The  smiles  and  dreams  Nat- 
alie coaxed  from  him  were  like  bewildered 
birds  on  the  threshold  of  an  opened  cage,  fear- 
ing flight.  At  times  his  eyes  were  set  on  her 
with  a  strange  questioning  fixity  that  probed 
inner  shrines.  It  was  as  if  these  two  souls, 
his  and  hers,  were  two  stars  pursuing  one  an- 
other on  the  same  orbit,  within  sight  but  never 
fused,  condemned  to  travel  like  twin  aspira- 
tions divided  by  a  mysterious  law. 

200 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       201 

Natalie's  voice  was  harnessed  to  a  phantom 
she  called  hope. 

"It  will  soon  be  over,"  she  kept  telling 
Pierre.  "And  then  we'll  see  races  united,  dis- 
armament, a  lasting  peace." 

She  could  not  unburden  her  heart. 

But  when  Pierre  answered:  "France  will 
rise  from  this  bitter  test  like  a  man  purified  by 
a  long  illness,"  she  thought  sadly  of  the  wars 
to  come,  the  sickness  for  which  sometimes  there 
is  no  cure.  She  wanted  to  say:  "Pierre,  every 
nation  to-day  is  ailing  with  the  malady  called 
nationalism.  The  remedy  lies  among  the  peo- 
ple, but  they  do  not  know  hqw  sick  they  are. 
They  listen  to  the  munition  maker's  diagnosis 
and  they  take  the  government's  medicine." 

Since  he  had  come  back  to  the  House  of  the 
Bourdons,  general  issues  had  faded  from 
Pierre's  mind.  He  spoke  of  evil  and  named 
it  Prussia;  he  spoke  of  good  and  named  it 
France.  The  united  races  fought  for  the  sub- 
lime cause  of  France:  not  for  supremacy  of 
seas,  commercial  advantage,  colonies,  or  pro- 


202       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

tection  of  wealth.  The  people  fought  for  the 
people,  not  for  a  powerful  minority.  And 
Natalie  listening  to  him  had  no  heart  for  con- 
tradiction. 

"Look  how  we  are,"  he  said.  "Before  the 
war  we  squabbled  among  ourselves.  Nothing 
was  good.  We  ridiculed  each  other  in  a  pother 
of  small  revolutions  that  got  nowhere.  Art 
wrangled  with  art,  people  with  administrations, 
the  State  with  God.  We  were  tangled  in  a 
muddle  of  petty  officials,  intrigue,  prejudices 
.  .  .  words,  phrases,  gesticulations.  We  cari- 
catured our  rivals  and  called  it  wit.  Progress 
was  a  question  of  bribes,  taxes,  decorations. 
The  socialists  fought  against  the  army.  The 
man  who  roared  the  loudest  became  a  national 
idol  on  a  tottering  pedestal.  But  now  look  at 
us!  One  nation,  one  voice,  one  ideal  ...  an 
heroic  vision  of  a  loyal  race  united  in  a  single 
purpose  .  .  ." 

To  which  Natalie  might  have  replied :  "Ro- 
mantic, sublime  children,  your  France  is  in 
your  hearts,  the  banner  of  an  illusion.  You 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       203 

are  saving  your  land  to  give  it  to  the  man 
who  put  a  gun  in  your  hand.  Your  earnings 
are  the  price  of  the  gun  you  hold.  When  will 
you  see  that?  And  not  you  alone  are  blind. 
It  is  not  France  alone  who  will  win  or  lose 
uselessly  in  this  war.  It  is  the  people  of  every 
nation." 

Instead  she  answered :  "The  blood  of  France 
is  a  costly  wine — and  what  will  become  of  fu- 
ture grapevines?" 

Pierre  cried:  "There  will  always  be  more 
vines!" 

The  armies  never  wavered.  Nor  did  the 
death  of  brave  men  postpone  the  coming  of 
Spring.  The  stir  of  laboring  earth  thrilled 
across  the  mutilated  frontiers,  imperceptible  as 
the  ripening  of  fruit.  The  exiled  birds,  return- 
ing, sailed  over  ruins  to  fertile  spots  where, 
behind  the  smoking  line,  nature  went  through 
its  eternal  images  in  the  mystery  of  travail. 
Sunny  villages  gave  an  illusion  of  safety.  The 
gestures  of  life  were  the  same.  Cities  strove 


204       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

to  conquer  anguish.  There  were  certain  things 
that  went  on,  while  the  fate  of  Europe  hung 
solemn  and  significant  over  trampled  land  and 
treacherous  seas. 

The  Seine  glittered  across  the  city,  riveting 
it  with  a  silver  band.  In  the  gardens  green 
eyes  tipped  every  branch.  The  alleys  warmed 
slowly,  and  over  the  soft  gray  streets  streamed 
humanity  in  supple,  livelier  forms  as  if  their 
crusted  hearts  had  burst  like  tiny  seeds.  The 
surface  of  the  season  lay  lightly  over  drama. 
Sun  stole  through  the  windows  of  the  hundred 
hospitals  where  mummied  figures  lay  in  rows 
and  rows  on  beds  of  pain.  Endless  lines  of 
gray  ambulances,  branded  with  the  red  symbol 
of  the  Divine  Martyr,  sped  down  white  roads 
lined  with  sweet  fruit  blossoms.  Crippled  men, 
clad  in  their  worn  raiment  of  glory,  limped, 
groped  and  hopped  from  warming  ray  to  ray, 
like  maimed  birds  of  brilliant  plumage  seek- 
ing a  friendly  ledge.  And  the  women  in 
black  uncovered  their  sad  faces  to  look  for 
memories  of  happier  Aprils. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       205 

Natalie  went  out  again  and  hunted  for 
beauty  that  she  might  give  it  to  Pierre  and 
quiet  her  own  torment.  She  thought:  "Surely, 
after  nine  months  of  bloodshed,  human  nature 
will  be  sadder  and  wiser.  Sacrifice  will  have 
ennobled  the  people.  Something  will  come 
out  of  it.  I  must  find  an  indication  of  the 
utility  of  such  protracted  butchery." 

She  found  an  exasperated  condition  of  vir- 
tue and  wickedness.  Elemental  nature  had 
not  changed,  would  not  change.  But  it  was 
as  if  a  powerful  lens  had  been  applied  to  human 
beings,  magnifying  their  motives  and  their  acts. 
They  handled  drama  with  the  serious  airs  of 
experts  pronouncing  on  the  value  of  common 
goods.  They  patronized  each  other's  miseries. 
They  spent  their  love  and  hate  as  from  an  ex- 
haustless  fund,  when  all  the  time  credit  was 
getting  lower. 

Beauty  lay  among  the  humble  whose  sacri- 
fice merged  into  an  ungilded  thing  called  the 
spirit  of  the  people,  and  whose  habits  of  obedi- 
ence now  served  them  well:  transformed  into 


206       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

a  philosophic  patriotism.  They  gave  their 
best  with  the  simple  pride  of  realized  force  nec- 
essary to  their  country,  a  free  gift  to  the  gov- 
erning classes.  They  believed  that  in  giving 
now  they  would  not  have  to  give  later.  By 
protecting  their  homes  they  were  lending  their 
good  will  and  faith  to  a  government.  They 
worshiped  their  own  men,  whose  sublime  cour- 
age and  patience  traced  again  in  letters  of  gold 
the  spirit  of  France.  But  Natalie,  as  she 
looked  deeper,  saw  the  tragic  futility  of  that 
beauty  which,  in  stemming  a  hostile  tide,  ex- 
hausted its  very  essence.  It  was  a  beauty  that 
lifted  the  people  but  did  not  remedy  evil.  It 
was  a  beauty  risen  from  emergency.  Griev- 
ances were  not  exterminated:  they  were  post- 
poned. The  wage-earners,  the  socialists,  the 
idealists,  in  yielding  to  a  crisis  had  merely  pro- 
claimed a  truce.  There  would  be  a  reckoning 
day. 

Natalie  could  not  forget  the  others  whose 
love  for  suffering  humanity  found  fat  profit  in 
exploiting  it.  They  were  the  men  and  women 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       207 

whose  philanthropic  impulse  had  run  its  term, 
and  who,  continuing  a  decorative  show  of  good, 
relapsed  into  secret  weariness,  or  plotted  for 
rewards,  sustained  their  reputations  as  bene- 
factors as  an  advertisement  for  future  refer- 
ence. There  were  those,  too,  who  mended  men 
and  fed  the  hungry  with  a  terrible  efficiency 
that  hid  their  empty  hearts.  And  there  were 
those  who,  sincerely  convinced  of  their  own 
disinterestedness,  glowed  comfortably  with  a 
sense  of  importance  and  virtue  easily  paid  for. 
The  supply  of  good  done,  apart  from  motives, 
simply  filled  the  demand,  as  commodities  are 
circulated  to  fit  a  public  need,  as  labor  is  meas- 
ured by  capital.  There  was  no  credit  in  it. 
Natalie  could  not  see  why  relief  work  should 
be  glorified.  It  fulfilled  its  functions,  not  even 
balancing  disaster.  The  debt  to  society  was 
a  larger  one  than  philanthropists  could  ever 
settle. 

Pierre  watched  wistfully  the  slow  birth  of 
the  season — his  longing  matching  Natalie's, 


208       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

but  his  mind  more  easily  diverted  from  somber 
themes.  His  youth  and  convalescence  sought 
outlet  in  the  love  of  one  woman,  the  love  of 
life. 

"Beloved,  I  should  like  to  run  away  with  you 
and  forget  everything!"  he  exclaimed  one  day. 

Natalie  smiled  and  answered:  "Well,  we 
will  go,  you  and  I  and  Felix,  and  forget  every- 
thing for  a  little  while." 

The  next  day  was  a  Sunday :  a  day  destined 
to  remain  with  her  forever  after,  set  in  her 
heart.  They  three  were  deliberately  young 
and  happy,  conspirators  with  the  sun  and  sky. 
When  Natalie  saw  Pierre  early  that  morn- 
ing she  knew  that  it  would  be  a  cloudless  day. 
His  eyes  were  lit  in  boyish  expectancy,  his 
face  was  bright  with  joy  of  greeting  her. 

"How  beautiful  you  are,  Beloved!" 

Good,  kind  Felix  beamed.  He  wore  his  old 
Norfolk  jacket,  its  pockets  bulging  with  odds 
and  ends.  A  Panama  hat  was  tilted  over  his 
humorous  face.  Carrying  a  little  luncheon- 
basket  he  lounged  beside  the  lovers,  in  a  holi- 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       209 

day  mood.  The  city  basked  beneath  a  prema- 
ture warmth.  The  river,  glistening,  caught 
their  eyes  and  decided  their  course. 

"Let  us  go  with  the  people  to  Vincennes," 
suggested  Pierre  joyously. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  when  gentler 
thoughts  come  to  human  beings,  when  laws 
of  harmony  strike  eye  and  ear.  "What  is  the 
use  of  living?"  growls  the  misanthropist,  to  be 
met  with  an  answer,  "For  this !"  For  the  sheer 
thrill  of  being,  of  inhaling  air  that  is  like  a 
promise,  of  seeing  the  smooth  river  glide  away 
heavy  with  sunlight,  carrying  colorful  little 
boats  to  unknown  destinations,  of  feeling  the 
quickening  of  sap  in  stem  and  bark,  of  breath- 
ing the  spicy  dreams  that  hide  in  the  first  green 
blades.  There  is  nothing  behind,  there  is  noth- 
ing ahead :  only  the  present  consciousness  of  as- 
piring life. 

They  paused  on  a  dock  near  the  Pont  des 
Arts,  and  sniffed  deliciously  a  faded  smell  of 
fish  and  humid  moss.  Beside  them  clustered 
the  people,  lively  products  of  a  generous  na- 


210      CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

tion,  ready  with  good-natured  sallies,  swift  and 
shrewd  of  tongue  and  glance,  able  to  keep  their 
heart  brave  on  this  Sunday  because  there  were 
enough  weekdays  to  work  and  suffer  in.  Pres- 
ently a  little  boat  slid  beneath  the  bridge,  and 
bustled  up  to  the  dock  to  take  on  Pierre  and 
Natalie  and  Felix.  There  were  no  empty 
seats.  But  an  old  red-cheeked  woman,  built  in 
cheerful  curves,  rose  alertly  to  offer  her  place 
to  the  wounded  poilu.  Pierre's  smile  of  re- 
fusal encouraged  her  to  voluble  confidences. 
And  she  was  soon  telling  her  neighbors  of  the 
three  sons  she  had  given  to  France. 

Pierre's  uniform  answered  for  Felix  and 
Natalie.  They  shared  the  general  good  will 
of  unshaven  honest  little  soldiers,  hatless 
women,  pink-faced  fathers  of  families,  children 
and  dogs.  The  boat  seemed  to  be  carrying 
them  all  away  from  anguish,  as  if  its  progress 
past  the  mellow  quais,  melodious  domes  and 
graceful  bridges  was  an  effortless  part  of  the 
day.  The  city  belonged  to  the  people :  Sunday 
belonged  to  them.  The  Garden  of  Henri  IV, 


,       CHILDREN   OF   FATE       211 

advancing  like  the  prow  of  a  ship,  was  span- 
gled with  green.  The  bronze  statue  of  Henri 
IV,  towering  on  the  bridge,  rode  ever  forward 
on  his  full-chested  charger,  a  brave  gentleman, 
ageless  in  his  gallantry.  The  river  curved 
softly  around  the  He  Saint-Louis,  lined  with 
beloved  old  houses,  dappled  with  pale  gold. 
On  the  lower  banks,  quaint  symbols  of  the  sea- 
son, stood  patient  fishermen  dangling  their  thin 
lines. 

Pierre  and  Natalie  stood  very  close  to  one 
another,  leaning  against  the  boat's  railing. 
Their  faces  reflected  tenderness  and  gratitude. 
They  seldom  spoke.  But  when  Pierre  turned 
to  Natalie,  or  she  to  him,  the  simple  phrase 
in  the  framing  was  answered  almost  before  it 
was  pronounced.  And  their  smiles  met. 

Pierre  said:  "In  all  the  world  there  is  noth- 
ing like  this." 

Natalie  said:  "See  how  the  sky  is  melted  in 
the  river,  and  how  soft  the  light  is.  There  are 
no  edges  anywhere." 

Honest  Felix  stood  behind  them  puffing  at 


212       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

his  pipe,  chuckling  companionably  at  the  antics 
of  a  puppy,  content  to  ruminate  and  leave  the 
lovers  free.  His  delighted  expression  when 
Natalie  turned  to  him  showed  clearly  his  whole- 
hearted rapture  at  his  sister's  mood. 

As  the  boat  nosed  farther  up  the  river,  fac- 
tories lifted  their  lean  nozzles  from  robust  quar- 
ters of  toil.  And  the  sleeping  industries  reared 
ungainly  silhouettes,  oddly  unfamiliar  in  their 
inactivity. 

Pierre  pointed  to  the  chimneys. 

"They  look  like  cannons." 

Natalie  touched  his  arm  quickly.  "No!  .  .  . 
No,  we  want  to  forget  to-day." 

Then  the  little  boat,  with  a  great  show  of  im- 
portance, drew  up  at  Vincennes  and  the  surge 
of  a  vivacious  crowd  swept  them  onwards  to  the 
shore.  Immediately  the  people  scattered  in 
noisy  groups  or  sentimental  couples,  spreading 
from  populous  districts  on  the  roads  that  led 
to  the  woods. 

The  three  friends  stood  momentarily  bewil- 
dered, their  eyes  consulting. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       213 

"This  is  the  first  time  I've  done  anything 
like  this  since  the  war,"  escaped  from  Natalie, 
and  she  added  gayly  to  offset  the  reference, 
"Let's  go  adventuring!"  She  felt  stimulated, 
warmed  by  the  presence  of  the  people.  They 
taught  her  how  to  relax.  Then  there  was 
Pierre,  his  thin  face  flushed  and  boyish,  his 
voice  eagerly  raised  as  echo  to  her  slightest 
wish. 

Felix  dug  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  strode 
off,  choosing  a  hill.  He  whistled  a  little  tune 
in  syncopated  rhythm.  And  as  if  he  had  known 
it  would  be  so,  this  road  wound  away  from 
the  people  and  led  to  quiet  places.  Natalie 
and  Pierre  followed  slowly,  their  arms  linked. 
All  along  the  way  ran  a  low  rustic  fence.  The 
earth  and  trees,  buoyantly  fragrant,  gave  out 
young  sprigs  of  green.  As  they  mounted, 
the  hill  billowed  away.  Below  coiled  other 
white  roads,  a  line  of  silver  marking  the  river, 
and  other  softly  etched  hills.  Fruit  blossoms 
sprang  in  the  distance  like  white  birds  fly- 
ing. All  about  them  it  was  very  quiet,  except 


214      CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

for  the  uneven  rustle  of  wings  and  insect 
voices. 

"We  were  made  for  this  and  this  was  made 
for  us,"  sighed  Natalie.  "After  all,  Peter, 
here  is  the  truth.  Why  don't  we  confess  our- 
selves beaten  and  be  as  happy  as  we  could 
be?" 

"I  should  love  to  live  in  the  country  with 
you,  but  then  I  couldn't  build  houses,"  said 
Pierre  quaintly. 

"You  could  build  cottages!"  she  joked. 

"Many  cottages  would  make  a  city." 

"And  many  cities  make  wars,"  she  mused. 
"Well,  there  you  have  it.  Let  us  find  an 
island,  Peter,  and  you  build  just  one  house 
on  it." 

Entering  into  the  spirit  of  her  dream,  he 
said  earnestly,  "It  will  be  the  most  beautiful 
house  in  the  world  .  .  .  white,  Natalie,  and 
built  like  a  tower,  covered  with  rose-vines  and 
honeysuckle.  And  the  island  will  be  a  gar- 
den." 

"The  garden,"  decided  Natalie,  "is  my  af- 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       215 

fair.  It  must  be  all  white  and  gold,  with  spots 
of  purple  among  the  green,  and  cypress  trees 
marking  the  alleys.  And  there  will  be  a 
special  wild  meadow  filled  with  buttercups, 
where  little  white  goats  and  sheep  may  graze." 

"And  the  sea  around  us,"  interrupted  Pierre, 
"will  be  blue  as  children's  eyes." 

"And  there  will  be  fruit  trees  .  .  .  oranges 
and  olives." 

"And  there  will  be  a  young  shepherd  who 
will  play  his  pipes  at  sunset." 

"You  people,  I  see  a  bit  of  something  that 
looks  like  grass  and  a  brook,"  Felix  called 
back  at  them.  "Suppose  we  picnic  here." 

Felix,  who  was  deft  at  service,  soon  arranged 
a  pleasant  feast  that  beckoned  to  their  appe- 
tites. Pierre  leaned  against  a  tree  and  sighed, 
"Arcadia!" 

Natalie,  looking  at  him,  thought  how  simple 
and  wise  was  this  manner  of  living,  and  drew 
from  her  imagination  happy  dreams  of  the 
magic  island.  Some  day  they  would  go  there. 

Not  far  away  squatted  a  merry  family  like- 


216       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

wise  preparing  their  meal.  The  children 
romped  over  the  ragged  grass,  sniffing  the  air 
like  young  animals.  The  father,  a  soldier  back 
on  leave,  lazed  at  full  length,  his  elbows 
crooked,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  neck. 
His  old  mother  and  his  wife  busied  themselves 
with  a  lunch-basket.  Farther  along,  a  couple 
strolled,  amorously  inclined  one  towards  the 
other,  the  young  soldier's  arm  around  the  girl. 
An  old  man  and  woman  passed,  dressed  in 
deep  mourning.  They  walked  gravely  as  if 
they  were  retracing  past  joys. 

"Fall  to,  friends!  What's  the  matter  with 
this?"  cried  Felix.  His  kindly  smile  envel- 
oped them.  "Say,  isn't  this  some  life?"  He 
sat  Turkish-fashion  in  front  of  Natalie. 

The  brook  was  slim  and  gurgled  a  cool  little 
song  as  it  tripped  over  the  stones.  A  few  dead 
leaves  crumpled  in  final  surrender.  Hidden 
among  the  foliage  were  late  violets.  Voices 
sounded  in  hollow  resonance  from  an  invisible 
road. 

They  ate  their  bread  and  cheese  and  eggs, 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       217 

drank  the  red  wine,  and  chattered  of  the  pres- 
ent. When  they  had  finished  Felix  pro- 
duced his  pipe,  Pierre  a  cigarette,  and  they 
sat  in  the  sunshine,  their  silences  more  fre- 
quent. 

Pierre  looked  at  the  passersby,  the  people 
who,  old  and  young,  trod  the  blossoming  earth 
as  if  it  were  a  gift,  mingling  their  talk  and 
laughter  in  brisk  dissonances  that  could  not 
break  the  charm. 

"How  we  need  this  thing,"  he  said,  and  toyed 
with  a  handful  of  uprooted  green.  "The  peo- 
ple go  to  the  country  as  naturally  as  sheep  to 
pasture.  They  are  satisfied  with  so  little,  too. 
Within  sight  of  roofs  and  chimneys,  dressed 
in  the  cumbersome  clothes  of  the  city,  they  pre- 
tend that  they  are  free,  one  day  a  week,  be- 
cause they  walk  across  a  patch  of  grass,  pick 
a  flower  or  two,  take  off  their  coats  and  hats 
and  feel  the  earthy  mold  beneath  their  feet. 
They  need  to  get  away  from  streets,  from 
stuffy  shops  and  stuffy  homes  and  the  constant 
plagues  of  everyday  existence.  And  they  have 


218       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

that  spark  in  them  that  brings  them,  without 
reasoning,  in  tune  with  this."  He  buried  his 
face  suddenly  in  a  clump  of  green. 

"They're  children,"  said  Felix.  "Look  at 
that  man  playing  with  his  kids."  An  elderly 
bald  person,  followed  by  a  noisy  brood  in  joy- 
ous chase,  raced  past.  He  was  breathing 
hard,  his  red,  shining  face  set  in  the  excitement 
of  the  game. 

"Papa  .  .  .  Papa  ...  eh,  Papa!"  panted 
his  young  sons,  galloping  after  him.  He  gave 
Natalie  a  neighborly  comprehensive  look  as 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  caught. 

"These  people  do  understand  beauty,"  Nat- 
alie murmured.  "They  find  it  in  such  simple 
things.  Our  people  are  more  self-conscious. 
They  can't  amuse  themselves  in  the  same  way. 
We  are  children,  too,  but  of  a  cruder  type. 
We  never  forget  our  strength.  Do  you  re- 
member what  an  imp  you  used  to  be,  Felix, 
when  you  were  a  boy?" 

Felix  chuckled  reminiscently. 

"We  lived  in  the  country,"  she  went  on. 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       219 

"We  lived  in  an  old  house  near  a  lake.  We 
were  always  risking  our  necks  climbing  trees 
and  other  deviltries.  And  we  always  turned 
up  for  meals  with  bruises,  torn  clothes  and 
appetites." 

Pierre  showed  immediate  interest.  "Tell  me 
more,  Natalie.  You've  never  spoken  much 
about  your  family.  Would  they  like  me?" 

"Sure!"  broke  heartily  from  Felix. 

"When  Father  died,"  continued  Natalie, 
"the  old  house  had  to  be  sold.  It  was  terrible. 
Felix  hid  in  the  stable  and  refused  to  leave. 
We  found  him  buried  in  the  hay." 

"I  thought  you'd  forget  me  and  I'd  stay  on," 
said  Felix. 

"He  wouldn't  cry.  In  fact  I  believe  he 
whistled  all  the  way  to  the  station.  Didn't 
you?" 

"It  was  that  or  bust,"  was  the  laconic  an- 
swer. 

"My  mother  tried  to  keep  her  courage  up. 
I  remember  she  told  us  fairy  tales  all  the  way 
to  the  city.  She  didn't  want  us  to  realize.  But 


220       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

life  was  changed.  We  lived  in  a  tiny  flat, 
and  Mother  slaved  and  slaved,  depriving  her- 
self of  everything  in  order  that  we  might  have 
an  education.  She  sent  us  here  because  she 
felt  that  a  year  or  two  in  Europe  would  give 
us  more  chances." 

"I  guess  we  can  take  care  of  her  now,"  said 
Felix,  chewing  the  end  of  his  pipe. 

Natalie  looked  at  him  cheerfully,  "Yes,  we 
can." 

Pierre  was  silent.  He  was  imaging  the 
mother  who  would  send  her  children  so  far 
away  that  they  might  work  out  their  own 
lives. 

"It  is  different,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Your  mother  wouldn't  understand  that?" 
cried  Natalie  quickly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  different.  t  To  us 
the  home  is  more  important  than  individual 
freedom." 

Natalie  stared  at  him  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion. "But  suppose  you  had  to  earn  your  liv- 
ing?" 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       221 

"We  should  not  need  to  leave  home  for  that 
.  .  .  especially  the  women,"  he  explained 
gently.  "When  we  are  married,  Beloved,  you 
will  not  have  to  earn  your  living." 

"But  I  should  want  to!" 

"My  mother  would  not  understand.  .  .  . 
When  the  war  is  over,  we  shall  see." 

Natalie  rose,  straightening  her  shoulders. 
"Yes,  we  shall  see."  Their  voices  had  taken 
graver  notes.  Pierre  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
put  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"You  shall  always  do  what  you  want,  Be- 
loved!" 

The  afternoon  glowed  ripely.  A  few  soft 
clouds  like  great  flowers  floated  in  the  sky. 
Felix  began  packing  away  the  remnants  of  the 
feast.  And  soon  they  started  walking  again, 
he  in  advance  as  if  he  were  exploring,  they  be- 
hind, with  slow  pace  and  lowered  eyes. 

Pierre  said,  "Beloved,  we  shall  be  happy." 

She  answered,  "Yes,"  her  heart  inexplicably 
heavy.  The  people  around  her  seemed  in- 
truders to  this  mood.  There  were  too  many 


222       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

people.  They  swarmed  among  the  trees  in 
holiday  attire. 

Pierre  went  on,  "Some  day  soon  I  am  going 
to  tell  my  father  and  mother  about  you.  I 
am  getting  strong."  He  lifted  his  arm  to  show 
her.  "And  then  you  will  be  considered  as  my 
fiancee.  When  the  war  is  over  we  will  marry." 

Natalie  wanted  to  ask  why  they  need  wait 
until  the  end  of  the  war.  The  horrid  thing 
kept  coming  back  like  the  fateful  tolling  of  a 
bell.  She  saw  no  escape  from  it.  But  his  face, 
turned  towards  her,  was  rapt  and  full  of  hope. 
She  could  not  trouble  him. 

Felix  turned  and  waved  his  arms.  "It's  tea- 
time.  I  want  a  beer.  What  do  you  say  to  go- 
ing in  here  ?"  He  pointed  to  a  little  restaurant. 
It  was  a  modest  place  built  on  the  side  of  a 
hill,  with  tables  and  benches  set  out  beneath 
a  rustic  arbor,  and  steps  leading  down  to  a 
leafy  terrace  overlooking  the  country.  An 
old  swing  hung  between  two  trees.  A  moldy 
looking  sea-saw  lifted  a  long  arm  as  if  in 
invitation.  The  gleam  of  distant  fruit  trees, 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       223 

of  the  river,  of  dreaming  hills,  tempted  Natalie. 
An  old-fashioned  sweetness  lingered  about  the 
place.  The  girl  who  served  them  smiled  at 
Pierre. 

As  they  sat  there  the  magic  of  the  hour  held 
them  enmeshed  in  waning  lights,  in  circling 
shadows,  in  the  aromas  of  earth  cooling  beneath 
the  dusk.  The  city  seemed  far  away.  Noth- 
ing existed  beyond  this  lost,  nameless  spot 
where  thoughts  became  secretive  and  gestures 
slow.  Again  the  sadness  crept  over  Natalie. 
She  strove  in  vain  to  push  it  away.  Pierre  was 
near  her,  safe  beside  her.  He  was  getting  well. 
But  a  sense  of  impending  danger  persisted. 
The  end  of  all  things  must  come,  struggle  as 
one  would.  The  end  of  a  lovely  day  was  the 
relinquishment  of  just  one  more  illusion.  She 
would  have  summoned  the  sun  back.  But  it 
slipped  through  her  fingers  and  fluttered  in 
elusive  flames  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon.  This 
day  of  forgetfulness  was  then  finished,  never 
to  return. 

She  shivered,  and  Pierre,  with  loverlike  so- 


224       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

licitude,  suggested  home-going.  In  his  tender 
eyes  she  read  the  confidence  she  did  not  feel. 

They  walked  down  the  hill,  the  three  of  them 
abreast.  Felix,  his  head  hunched  forward,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  the  lunch-basket  strung 
over  his  shoulders,  appeared  immersed  in  inner 
speculation.  The  road  dipped  in  blue  shadows 
that  lengthened  always  ahead  of  them.  They 
seemed  to  be  leaving  something  forever. 

"What  a  short  day!"  said  Pierre. 

On  the  boat,  returning,  she  leaned  again  as 
she  had  done  that  morning,  close  to  him.  The 
people  around  them,  packed  tightly,  still 
smiled  and  jested.  But  their  jests  and  smiles 
were  older,  as  if  they  too  sensed  a  change.  The 
river  had  grown  gray  and  still.  It  hardly 
seemed  to  move.  The  lean  chimneys  of  fac- 
tories looked  like  the  masts  of  bulky  ships. 
Pink  streaked  the  sky.  The  city  swam  in  mist, 
rearing  its  silhouettes  like  ghosts.  Lights 
burned  unsteady  vigils  high  in  the  blurred  win- 
dows. The  bridges  stretched  taut  and  myste- 
rious from  bank  to  bank. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       225 

Natalie  felt  Pierre's  hand  in  hers,  the  only 
warm  link  between  herself  and  the  vanished 
morning.  He  did  not  speak.  But  as  they 
neared  the  Pont  des  Arts,  where  the  little 
parting  would  come,  she  whispered  passion- 
ately, "Oh,  Peter,  don't  leave  me !" 

"Why  should  I,  Beloved?" 

"I  don't  know.  Everything  is  so  cruel.  If 
every  day  were  only  like  to-day!  Oh,  Peter, 
I  wish  it  were  this  morning." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "There  will  be 
many  mornings." 

But  joy  he  could  not  give  her  back,  as  si- 
lently they  landed  on  the  little  dock  and  stood 
for  a  moment  with  the  dark  city  towering  above 
them. 


XIII 

IT  seemed  sometimes  to  Pierre  that  his  fam- 
ily were  watching  him  stealthily,  cherish- 
ing him  the  more  as  his  health  returned,  as 
if  each  fresh  sign  of  physical  fitness  drew  from 
them  almost  imperceptible  emotions  of  an- 
guish and  relief.  The  dull  eyes  of  Louise 
Bourdon  never  left  him  when  she  was  in  the 
room.  He  was  aware  of  her  fixed  mournful 
gaze,  first  with  a  sentiment  of  pity,  then  with 
self-confessed  discomfort.  When  during  meals 
his  natural  effervescence  lifted  some  enthusi- 
asm, brought  a  lighter  word  or  smile  to  the 
surface,  her  usual  abstracted  glance  sharpened 
to  rebuke,  and  she  stared  at  him  silently,  re- 
minding him  of  loss.  At  times  it  flashed  across 
him  that  she  hated  him  for  being  alive,  that 
she  resented  the  accident  that  had  brought  him 
back  instead  of  Raymond.  Germaine  had  be- 
come her  shadow.  The  two  women  were  al- 

226 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       227 

ways  together,  wordless  in  their  cult  of  the 
dead,  passionately  absorbed  in  Raymond,  the 
newly  born.  Louise  had  yielded  a  share  of  her 
jealous  motherhood  to  the  girl.  And  Ger- 
maine's  aching  arms  held  the  baby  as  if  it  were 
her  own. 

The  House  of  the  Bourdons  remained  dark 
and  dignified,  a  living  altar  to  the  fallen  sons  of 
France.  There  was  no  place  in  it  for  youth 
and  gayety.  Jean  Bourdon  sat  most  of  the 
time  in  the  room  which  held  the  relics  of  his 
eldest  born.  Only  Pierre's  voice  roused  him 
to  a  semblance  of  his  jovial  self.  He  spoke 
to  the  boy  of  his  factories,  with  rare  moods  of 
hope  when  he  saw  the  men  back  in  their  places 
and  the  great  ovens  red  with  the  heat  of  toil. 
Pierre  felt  the  unvoiced  suggestion  that  it 
would  be  well  if,  instead  of  building  houses,  he 
followed  the  traditions  of  the  Bourdons  and 
some  day  took  the  place  Raymond  had  left 
vacant.  He  dared  not  face  the  problem  he 
foresaw. 

Madame   Bourdon   continued   her   tireless 


228       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

rounds  among  the  poor  and  sick,  reducing 
household  expenses  with  rigid  efficiency,  un- 
bending in  her  self-discipline,  praying  to  God 
that  she  might  do  her  duty  to  the  end.  Only 
Lorraine  clung  humanly  to  Pierre,  listened  to 
his  love  for  Natalie,  shared  his  hopes  and 
dreams,  and  encouraged  his  natural  tendencies 
to  creative  work.  It  was  she  who  urged  him 
to  take  up  again  his  interrupted  plans,  open 
his  sketch-books,  study  the  profession  he  be- 
Jieved  in  above  all  things. 

But  one  day,  when  in  his  room  he  bent  hap- 
pily over  his  papers,  sorting  out  old  projects, 
noting  ideas  on  the  sheet  he  had  tacked  to  a 
board,  Louise  Bourdon  suddenly  opened  the 
door  and  walked  in.  He  raised  his  face,  flushed 
with  the  thrill  of  thought,  a  smile  ready  on 
his  lips,  to  find  her  standing  there  staring  at 
the  scattered  contents  of  a  portfolio.  She  made 
no  comment.  She  simply  looked  at  them  and 
at  him;  then  as  he  started  to  speak,  a  visible 
embarrassment  altering  his  expression,  she 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       229 

shook  her  head  and  glided  out,  a  long  black 
figure  stiff  with  resentment. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  staring  at  the  things 
which  represented  life  and  work,  his  impulse 
checked  by  troubling  questions  that  flung  him 
again  into  a  world  of  sickening  doubt.  Louise 
Bourdon's  look  condemned.  It  said,  "If  you 
are  well  enough  for  this,  you  should  not  be 
here."  He  cast  away  the  thought,  only  to  have 
it  return  like  some  treacherous  enemy  who 
crawls  and  hides  in  underbrush,  and  sends  tor- 
menting darts  to  strike  a  vulnerable  spot. 

Why  should  he  not  build  up  again  that  which 
he  had  considered  lost?  Was  there  less  credit 
in  whole-hearted  work  than  before?  He  was 
not  a  coward.  He  had  done  his  part  of  the 
killing.  And  he  had  been  pronounced  unfit. 
His  absence  did  not  alter  the  destiny  of  na- 
tions. On  the  other  hand,  his  was  a  useful 
brain  employed  at  a  task  of  reconstruction.  He 
could  not  mourn  forever.  His  mind  traveled 
ahead  to  devastated  regions  where  such  men 
as/he  would  be  needed  to  put  together  again 


230       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

the  homes  men  had  wrecked.  This  was  his 
life,  his  duty.  Louise  Bourdon  had  no  right 
to  judge  him.  Her  vision  was  darkened  by 
Raymond's  grave. 

His  pencil  hovered  over  the  sheet.  He  saw 
communities  risen  from  ashes,  saw  lines  and 
colors  forming.  He  saw  the  peaceful  smoke 
from  many  chimneys.  He  saw  windows  that 
let  in  the  light,  and  doors  through  which  men 
and  women  on  their  several  missions  came  and 
went,  freed  from  the  nightmare.  Then  his 
eyes,  sweeping  over  the  clean  expanse  to  be 
covered  with  the  work  of  his  hands  and  brain, 
struck  the  color  of  his  uniform.  He  was  still 
clad  in  the  livery  of  war.  Of  what  use  his 
dreams  ?  The  muffled  roar  of  cannon  sounded 
in  his  ears,  the  sharper  rattle  of  machine  guns. 
The  din  of  battle  reached  him — there  was  no 
other  noise  that  held  against  it.  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  but  could  not  hide  the  aw- 
ful vision  of  ruins.  His  schemes  were  puerile. 
He  could  have  wept  to  find  them  so  lost  in 
catastrophe. 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       231 

Henri's  return  on  leave  wakened  the  house 
to  another  welcome.  But  his  coming  was  dif- 
ferent from  Pierre's.  He  brought  the  clamor 
of  war,  the  lust  of  adventure,  the  loud  comrade- 
ship of  good  fellows.  He  filled  the  place  with 
his  honest  boasting.  And  when,  in  the  even- 
ing, the  family  circle  formed  around  Grand- 
mother Bourdon's  armchair,  he  straddled  the 
hearth  where  once  Raymond  had  stood,  tell- 
ing heroic  anecdotes  of  the  trenches,  of  night 
attacks,  of  perilous  missions.  Then  the  women 
would  lay  aside  their  work.  Except  Lorraine, 
who  drooped  inconspicuously  in  a  corner,  they 
listened  avidly.  Their  eyes  brightened,  re- 
flecting Henri,  the  Warrior.  Louise,  kindled 
by  his  tales,  glowed  with  strange  fitful  fevers 
that  burned  through  her  mask,  quickened  her 
breathing  and  held  her  tensely,  as  if  at  a  signal 
her  bloodless  lips  would  take  up  the  cry  of 
vengeance  and  thrill  it  over  graves.  Old  Jean 
Bourdon  rounded  his  chest  with  a  look  of  reso- 
lute pride.  Every  once  in  a  while  he  nodded 
approvingly  and  glanced  at  his  wife.  Here 


232       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

was  something  worth  the  Bourdon  traditions! 

Henri's  manner  to  his  brother  was  patroniz- 
ing and  friendly.  He  included  him  in  his 
stories  with  a — "Of  course,  Pierre,  you  know 
what  it  is," — "You  must  have  seen  this  .  .  . 
or  that," — "We'll  get  them,  my  boy,  never 
fear!"  Pierre  would  smile  a  trifle  sadly.  He 
did  not  feel  at  his  ease.  When  Henri  turned 
to  him,  the  rest  of  the  family  turned  also,  look- 
ing at  him  expectantly,  as  if  they  were  sound- 
ing the  value  of  his  echo  and  waiting  for  rival- 
ing tales. 

Once  Henri  asked  exuberantly,  "How  is 
your  little  American?"  At  the  implied  light- 
ness of  his  consideration  for  Natalie,  Pierre 
flushed  hotly  and  answered  with  sudden  im- 
pulse, "Mademoiselle  Shaw  and  her  brother  are 
quite  well!"  He  felt  his  mother's  eyes  upon 
him  as  Henri  tossed  the  question  and  reply 
aside,  to  attack  a  less  sensitive  topic.  He  might 
have  blurted  out  the  love  with  which  his  heart 
was  laden,  had  not  Lorraine  laid  a  hand 
on  his  arm  and  drawn  him  aside,  pretending  a 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       233 

diverting  comment.  Later  Henri,  as  if  to 
prove  his  good  will,  tapped  Pierre  on  the  shoul- 
der. "Well,  you'll  soon  be  back  with  us,"  he 
said.  Madame  Bourdon  started  forward  but 
restrained  herself  with  obvious  effort.  Louise 
and  Germaine  watched  as  if  the  innocent  ques- 
tion uncovered  a  riddle.  Pierre's  delay  in  an- 
swering was  hardly  perceptible.  He  was  taken 
by  surprise.  Yet  he  realized  that  he  must  al- 
ways have  known  that  such  a  question  would 
arise. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  murmured. 

Evidently  Henri  detected  the  hesitancy,  for 
during  the  last  few  days  of  his  stay  he  referred 
often  to  Pierre's  health,  taking  for  granted 
his  eagerness  to  rejoin  his  regiment. 

"As  for  me,"  he  would  cry,  "as  long  as  I 
can  hold  a  gun,  I  stay  with  the  comrades!" 
His  eye  challenged  Pierre.  But  Pierre  refused 
gently  to  be  drawn  into  an  argument.  Henri's 
vigorous  combativeness  dismayed  him.  There 
was  more  than  love  of  France  in  Henri's  man- 
ner; there  was  a  discovered,  an  indulged  ag- 


234       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

gressiveness.  He  did  not  conceal  his  admira- 
tion for  certain  young  bloods  of  English  of- 
ficers he  had  met.  He  quoted  them  important- 
ly at  every  opportunity. 

"War  is  a  sport,"  was  his  refrain. 

Pierre  was  not  sorry  to  see  him  go,  although 
the  women  wept  and  the  House  was  plunged 
again  in  dignified  gloom.  He  could  not  think 
quietly  while  Henri's  martial  voice  dinned  in 
his  ears.  And  he  needed  to  think.  The  prob- 
lems of  life  and  death  loomed  again  before 
him  in  all  their  stark  simplicity.  Henri  had 
spoken  of  a  gun.  Pierre  was  now  strong 
enough  to  lift  a  gun.  But  there  was  something 
else  more  elusive  than  physical  fitness.  His 
mind  was  still  involved  in  tenebrous  specula- 
tions, lit  by  gleams  from  Natalie's  clear  gaze. 
He  dreaded  confessing  to  her  his  uncertain- 
ties. In  her  occasional  melancholy  he  thought 
he  divined  reproach.  For  what?  Her  tender- 
ness encompassed  him,  yet  there  were  secret 
corners  in  his  soul  where  she  might  not  go. 
He  himself  had  not  explored  those  corners 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       235 

fully.  Such  pain  as  he  had  endured  seemed 
mean  in  contrast  to  the  increasing  tor- 
ment of  his  spirit.  He  stood  again  at  the 
beginning  of  a  nightmare,  as  if  the  months 
behind  him  counted  only  as  confused  memories 
of  a  like  horror,  dissipated  then  by  his  exalted 
will.  But  now  the  tocsin  rang.  Should  he 
obey  ?  He  intended  to  fight  the  problem  with- 
out consulting  Natalie.  He  imagined  her  dis- 
appointment at  any  exposed  weakness. 

And  for  several  days  he  stayed  cloistered 
in  his  room,  pretending  an  indisposition,  dur- 
ing which  time  he  wrote  to  Natalie,  laying  the 
letters  away  and  marking  them  as  hers,  in 
case  death  should  strike  him. 

He  wrote:  "Beloved,  I  am  questioning 
roots.  I  have  gone  below  the  surface  and 
felt  the  clammy  mysterious  matter  from  which 
all  things  grow.  And  I  find  there  a  tenacious 
love  of  life.  Not  selfish  life,  though  all  life 
is  a  form  of  egoism.  But  life  that  seeks  ex- 
pression in  its  noblest  essence.  Where  am  I 
most  useful?  Or  am  I  useful  in  any  way? 


236       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

I  started  yesterday  to  plan  a  model  village. 
I  put  into  it  my  love  of  life.  The  implements 
at  hand  were  my  old  belongings  dating  back 
to  the  happy  Beaux  Arts  days.  I  had  left 
something  of  myself  in  them.  They  are  in- 
telligent, animate.  The  village  sprang  into 
being.  I  could  build  it  to-morrow.  But  when 
is  that  to-morrow?  Alas!  Yet  it  must  come. 
And  I  wonder  if  I  am  to  see  its  dawn.  I  am 
here  now  quivering  with  the  creative  force 
that  drives  me  ever  to  accomplishment.  I 
stand  a  pigmy  on  the  edge  of  God's  de- 
struction and  my  heart  is  great  with  longing. 
Which  is  the  truth  ?  The  masses  have  spoken. 
There  is  no  place  for  my  village  to-day. 
Then  .  .  .  ?" 

He  wrote:  "Beloved,  if  I  go,  you  will  un- 
derstand. If  I  stay,  you  will  understand.  A 
night  of  fever — when  in  my  head  a  thousand 
devils  tore  and  raged,  mauling  my  inner 
shrines,  profaning  my  prayers.  I  dressed  in 
my  uniform,  took  out  my  gun,  and  stood  by 
the  open  window,  spying  for  Satan  to  ride 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       237 

past.  Yes,  I  was  mad.  Then  the  fever  left 
me,  and  I  was  emptied  of  all  passions.  But 
dreams  are  quicksand,  Natalie.  Since  I  see 
no  end  to  anything  I  have  decided  to  go  and 
find  the  end.  It  is  our  last  privilege.  If  my 
death  could  only  settle  the  affairs  of  the 
universe  and  free  my  country  from  the  curse 
I  would  gladly  die.  But  Christ's  death  did 
not  save  mankind.  I  have  examined  my  heart. 
I  find  you  and  France  there  and  other  name- 
less longings  I  do  not  recognize.  Did  you  put 
them  there?  The  invader  is  in  our  land,  and 
the  invader  is  Evil.  That  is  what  you  and  I 
decided.  But,  once  vanquished,  where  will 
Evil  hide?  In  what  lofty  Hell  will  Evil  find 
hospitality?  It  is  not  a  trifling  diseased  thing 
to  be  kicked  into  the  nearest  gutter.  Evil  is 
powerful  as  any  nature  force  is  powerful.  The 
plans  for  my  village  lie  close  to  me.  I  have 
not  looked  at  them.  Of  what  use  if  I  go?  For 
I  shall  never  come  back." 

He  wrote:    "Beloved,  I  dreamed  you  came 
to  me  with  your  arms  outstretched.      They 


238       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

were  so  long  and  white,  they  stretched  beyond 
me  far  into  the  world.  And  you  said,  'Do  not 
go.'  I  tried  to  promise  I  would  not,  but  the 
words  choked  in  my  throat.  I  woke  sobbing 
like  a  child.  What  is  this  mystery?  I  am 
well.  But  my  spirit  is  not  quiet.  It  moves 
and  moves  like  an  imprisoned  bird.  The  earth 
is  an  aviary,  Natalie.  It  holds  all  our  strug- 
gling souls. 

"There  was  one  day  a  long  while  ago  when  I 
stood  on  a  mountain.  I  was  alone  with  God. 
I  did  not  know  you  then.  God  meant  the 
things  I  worshiped:  the  sky,  the  mountains, 
the  valley,  all  impregnated  with  a  divine  sig- 
nificance, a  message  men  might  read  if  they 
chose.  As  I  looked,  up  the  steep  road  labored 
a  heavy  cart  drawn  by  one  horse.  A  man 
was  flogging  the  horse,  the  whip  whistling 
through  the  air  with  an  ugly,  snaky  sound. 
Further  down  the  hill  a  woman  was  beating  a 
child.  The  child  cried  meekly,  as  if  it  were  ac- 
customed to  pain.  And  down  in  the  valley 
two  sportsmen  hunted  birds.  I  could  hear 


CHILDREN   OE   FATE       239 

the  sharp  snap  of  the  guns.  From  the  neigh- 
boring wood  I  could  hear  the  clang  of  an  ax. 
A  man  was  cutting  down  a  tree.  Below,  in 
a  field,  two  men  quarreled.  I  saw  one  strike 
the  other.  The  nature-things  about  me  had 
not  changed.  But  I  had  changed.  For  this 
incessant  destruction  sounded  a  note  of  life. 
Was  it  the  only  one?  I  could  not  believe  it. 
And,  as  I  looked,  I  saw  the  smoke  from  the 
chimney  of  a  cottage  curling  away  in  lovely 
spirals.  I  heard  the  bells  of  a  distant  church 
ringing  the  vespers,  I  saw  two  lovers  wind- 
ing their  way  up  a  hill.  I  heard  a  man  sing- 
ing. I  saw  a  man  tilling  the  ground.  And 
here  again  was  life.  Then  I  wondered  which 
was  my  way.  Perhaps  it  was  not  to  kill,  Be- 
loved, under  any  pretext!  Perhaps  it  is  to 
build.  Men  may  take  me  for  a  coward.  Braver 
souls  than  I  have  been  branded  with  that  name. 
But  what  will  you  call  me?  Nothing  in  your 
manner  to  me  lately  has  revealed  your  wishes 
or  your  convictions.  But  I  have  reread  your 
wonderful  letters  to  me,  out  there  .  .  .  and 


240       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

I  find  in  them  a  knowledge  of  wider  causes 
than  our  own  individual  problems.  Are  these 
causes  directly  dependent  on  our  actions  or 
are  they  evolved  from  inevitable  world  situa- 
tions which  put  us  at  the  mercy  of  an  epoch? 
Natalie,  I  am  going  to  my  mother  now,  and 
I  am  going  to  tell  her  of  you,  of  my  desire  to 
marry  you  immediately.  Then  I  shall  tell 
her  that  I  do  not  want  to  kill  again.  And 
we  will  see  what  she  says.  I  am  a  Bourdon. 
I  cannot  help  it;  I  am  as  caught  by  it  as  a 
leaf  on  a  tree.  I  cannot  break  with  them. 
Their  honor  is  my  honor.  But,  oh,  Be- 
loved .  .  .  1" 

Pierre  went  to  his  mother.  She  was  in  her 
room,  kneeling  on  her  prie-dieu  before  a  ma- 
hogany crucifix.  She  fingered  her  rosary  de- 
voutly, her  head  bowed,  her  lips  moving.  She 
did  not  turn  to  greet  him,  and  he  waited.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  room  closed  about  him.  It 
had  never  changed  since  he  could  remember. 
The  bed  was  draped  suffocatingly  in  red  plush 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       241 

with  a  lace  cover  made  by  Grandmother  Bour- 
don in  her  younger  days.  Nailed  at  the  head 
of  the  bed  was  a  sprig  of  faded  green.  A  mas- 
sive Breton  wardrobe  loomed  in  a  corner  as 
impregnable  as  a  fortress.  A  little  table  held 
Madame  Bourdon's  glasses,  her  watch  and  a 
prayer  book.  The  air  was  close  and  dull,  as 
if  nothing  had  happened  in  this  room  for  cen- 
turies. The  windows  never  seemed  to  have 
been  opened.  Pierre,  looking  down  at  the  rigid 
figure  of  his  mother,  was  seized  with  a  swift 
misgiving.  There  was  something  terrifying  in 
her  immobility.  At  last  her  fingers  traced 
the  symbol  in  final  punctuation  of  her  devo- 
tions and  she  rose  slowly,  as  one  whose  knees 
are  weak,  her  face  austere  in  its  communion 
with  duty. 

"Thou,  Pierre?" 

"Mother,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  be- 
gan quickly.  "I  want  to  tell  you  many 
things." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bedc 
He  noticed  that  she  looked  old  and  tired. 


242       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

"What  is  it,  my  son?"  she  said  kindly. 

He  stood  before  her,  his  eyes  direct  in  glance, 
his  arms  at  his  sides. 

"It  is  this  way.  I  love  the  American  girl, 
Natalie  Shaw.  I  have  not  told  you  before. 
But,  Maman,  she  means  more  to  me  than  all 
the  world,  except  you  and  Papa.  She  has 
been  my  strength,  my  inspiration,  during  these 
months.  She  has  been  my  comrade,  my  dear 
sister,  my  love.  Maman,  I  cannot  live  with- 
out her.  I  ask  your  blessing.  I  want  to  marry 
her  soon,  very  soon.  You  will  love  her."  His 
eyes,  grown  anxious,  studied  the  inflexible 
lines  of  his  mother's  face.  She  seemed  turned 
to  stone.  She  sat,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  as  if 
in  grave  meditation.  And  she  waited. 

He  went  on  passionately.  "She  will  be  a 
good  daughter  to  you,  Maman.  She  is  not 
of  our  race,  but  she  is  well  brought  up.  She 
and  Felix  have  spoken  often  to  me  of  their 
family.  She  .  .  .  she  has  no  dowry,  Maman. 
But  I  am  young  and  strong  now.  I  can  work 
for  her.  I  will  keep  her.  And  we  Bourdons 


CHILDREN    OF^  FATE       243 

know,  don't  we,  that  a  loyal  heart  is  greater 
than  a  fortune?  She  is  intelligent,  Maman. 
I  could  not  love  a  stupid  girl.  Ah,  Maman, 
I  know  you  will  understand.  .  .  ."  He  sank 
on  his  knees  before  her,  inviting  the  maternal 
gesture. 

Madame  Bourdon  spoke  with  sudden  harsh- 
ness that  broke  his  appeal  like  a  blow.  "And 
your  duty  as  a  Frenchman?" 

He  lifted  himself  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had 
been  struck.  "My  duty?"  he  said  a  little 
wildly.  "Ah,  I  have  thought  of  that,  tool 
I  have  done  my  best,  Maman.  I  have  done 
my  share.  I  am  well  .  .  .  yes  ...  in  body, 
but  not  in  soul.  I  need  not  go  back  .  .  .  yet. 
I  am  not  called.  I  want  to  work  for  France 
.  .  .  yes.  I  want  to  plan  for  the  end  of  this 
war.  They  will  need  me  then."  His  face 
shone  full  upon  her,  filled  with  ardent,  youth- 
ful dreams.  "I  want  to  build!"  he  cried. 
"Natalie  will  help  me.  I  want  to  build  up 
the  villages!" 

He  saw  his  mother  rise.     There  was  some- 


244       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

thing  awesome  in  her  rising.  Her  eyes  were 
set  and  stern.  Her  voice  rang  coldly.  "Pierre, 
my  son?  You  think  of  love,  of  marriage  with 
a  stranger  at  such  a  time?  You  talk  of  work 
for  France?"  She  pointed.  "Your  work  is 
out  there,  where  your  brother  died,  where 
Henri  has  gone.  You  work  is  that  of  a  soldier, 
of  a  Bourdon.  How  dare  you  come  to  me  .  .  . 
your  mother  .  .  .  with  this  thing?  I  tell  you 
that  this  marriage  will  never  be  while  I  live. 
You,  my  last  born,  a  coward?  It  is  not  pos- 
sible. If  you  are  well  enough  to  marry,  you 
are  well  enough  to  fight.  I  have  wondered 
.  .  .  and  now  I  know.  It  is  that  woman  then 
...  it  is  she  who  has  poisoned  your  mind, 
turned  you  from  your  duty  .  .  .  she,  the 
stranger  whose  land  is  not  in  danger.  Whom 
has  she  lost?"  Her  passion  mounted;  with 
hostile  face  and  cutting  voice  she  scourged 
him.  "Whom  has  she  lost?  Tell  me  that! 
When  Raymond's  wife  cries  for  vengeance, 
when  Germaine  your  sister's  life  is  broken,  you 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       245 

speak  of  love  and  marriage!  Shame  on  you, 
Pierre!  Shame  on  us!" 

He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  Fever 
blazed  in  his  cheeks.  "Maman  .  .  ." 

Madame  Bourdon  advanced  towards  him. 
"I  will  forget  this,"  she  said  ...  "I  will  for- 
get it.  Let  it  lie  buried  between  us.  But  know 
one  thing:  that  I  would  rather  see  you  dead 
than  a  coward." 

Distracted,  he  clutched  her  arm.  "You  say 
it  is  Natalie?  It  is  not  Natalie!  She  kept 
me  alive  while  I  was  in  that  hell.  Her  words 
have  been  the  inspiration,  the  only  trumpet  call. 
She  has  loved  France.  She  too  has  sacrificed. 
Did  she  not  send  me  off  with  a  smile?  Have 
you  forgotten  her  that  day?  Did  she  not  send 
me  off  with  the  courage  and  the  calm  of  a 
saint?  You  shall  not  be  unjust!  Natalie  has 
never  influenced  me  in  any  but  noble  ways. 
No,  she  has  not.  But  don't  you  see,  I  am  not 
fitted  to  be  a  soldier?  There,  you  have  the 
truth.  And  I  have  done  my  best !  But  I  am 


246       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

more  fitted  to  put  my  heart  and  soul  in  the 
rebuilding  of  this  sad  country." 

"Pierre,  the  men  of  France  are  needed  to 
fight.  I  have  no  more  to  say."  The  mother 
note  had  gone  from  her  voice.  She  walked 
with  a  steady  step  to  her  prie-dieu  and  knelt. 
She  knelt  rigidly,  her  lips  moving.  Pierre 
knew  that  she  was  praying  for  him.  Then 
despair  descended  into  his  soul.  His  fever  left 
him.  He  stood  cold  and  desolate  like  an  old 
man,  his  mouth  empty  of  words. 

When  his  mother  had  prayed,  she  rose  and 
came  to  him.  "Pierre,  do  thy  duty,"  she 
said. 

He  turned  and  left  her. 

Night  was  with  him.  He  had  not  moved. 
He  had  called  aloud  for  Natalie  in  his  solitude, 
and  with  a  momentary  exaltation  he  felt  sud- 
denly her  presence  in  the  room. 

"Pierre,  do  thy  duty." 

This  then  was  his  duty.  He  reached  blindly 
for  the  creed  he  had  built  once  before.  The 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       247 

room  filled  with  the  ghosts  of  his  comrades. 
He  saw  them  everywhere.  He  saw  Lucien 
Nassaud,  Brillaud  de  Granville,  Jean  Lodec 
and  the  others.  He  saw  Raymond  and  Robert 
de  Gency.  They  pressed  around  him  in  ser- 
ried ranks,  pointing  to  a  distant  battlefield. 
He  took  up  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote: 
"There  is  no  way  out.  We  are  Bourdons. 
There  is  no  way  out  now.  The  thing  is  done. 
But  I  have  no  hate  in  my  heart  for  any  one. 
Nor  have  they  .  .  .  my  comrades.  But  there 
is  hate  in  the  people  behind  the  battle  line. 
The  women  hate,  because  we  are  killed.  The 
old  men  hate.  They  drive  us  on.  We  must 
go.  And  there  are  men  who  are  born  war- 
riors. So  it  will  ever  be.  We,  the  builders, 
must  share  their  fate  or  be  called  cowards. 
Well,  and  the  country?  It  is  beautiful  and 
tragic.  But  the  other  countries  see  gain  ahead. 
And  the  smaller  ones  will  be  victims  until  the 
end  of  time.  I  cannot  save  them  though  I 
would  if  it  were  in  my  power.  Shall  this  be 
a  lesson?  You  nations  who  are  far  and  wise, 


248      CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

watch  us  die.  Let  our  deaths  teach  you  a 
lesson.  Then  it  will  indeed  be  worth  while. 
Put  those  words  for  which  men  die  out  of  your 
hearts.  Do  not  let  the  lust  for  armies  sneak 
up  on  your  governments.  Nor  do  not  let  false 
fears  drive  you  to  excess.  It  is  my  message: 
the  message  of  one  quivering  soul  whose  jour- 
ney will  be  far  and  mysterious.  Watch  us  die. 
Watch  our  youth  go  down  and  watch  the  red- 
dened earth.  And  stay  in  your  homes." 

To  Natalie  he  wrote:  "Natalie,  I  am  go- 
ing. I  shall  not  see  you  until  the  moment  of 
parting.  I  could  not.  But  to-morrow  morn- 
ing I  shall  take  the  necessary  steps  and  be 
sent  immediately  back  to  my  post.  Now  this 
is  the  beginning  and  the  end.  If  it  must  be 
that  I  lose  you,  remember  always  our  love. 
Let  it  be  deathless.  And  when  you  plant  your 
gardens,  think  of  Pierre. 

"You  said  to  me  once,  'You  are  justified/ 
I  have  not  forgotten  any  of  your  words.  You 
sent  me  out  with  a  brave  heart.  You  shall 
send  me  again.  Nor  shall  I  fail  you  this  time, 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       249 

though  it  is  harder.  Nothing  has  changed 
since  that  day  nearly  a  year  ago.  The  sound 
of  marching  feet  still  rends  the  air.  The  sky 
is  black  with  smoke.  And  the  invader  is  on 
our  land.  The  invader  is  on  our  land,  but  there 
is  more  than  that.  His  ruthless  planning  aims 
at  the  heart  of  our  Latin  civilization.  His  hand 
is  lifted  for  a  mortal  blow  at  our  immortal 
spirit.  He  must  be  crushed.  What  is  his 
name,  Natalie?  You  will  tell  me  that  when 
I  see  you.  I  know  one  of  his  names.  It  is 
the  name  of  our  present  enemy.  But  when 
I  am  gone,  when  the  thousands  are  gone,  will 
his  name  have  changed?  Evil  masquerades  in 
many  uniforms. 

"I  see  our  heroes.  They  file  before  me  as 
before  an  applauding  multitude.  I  see  their 
faces  as  one  face  set  in  grave  purpose.  I 
see  the  flag  they  carry  so  proudly.  Then  they 
are  gone  and  others  come.  What  language 
will  the  future  generations  speak?  Will  it 
be  Russian,  Japanese,  English,  or  will  some 
undiscovered  savage  tribe  spring  forward — 


250       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

another  Prussian  Empire?  But  France,  Nat- 
alie, France  is  not  like  the  others.  She  is  not. 
She  is  the  romance  of  the  past,  the  poem  the 
young  poet  writes,  the  sweetest  melody  of  all, 
the  blue  flower  reddened  by  a  jealous  enemy. 
Oh,  Natalie,  men  love  this  thing  they  call  war 
or  there  would  be  no  wars.  What  can  we  do 
with  raw  nature?  It  must  be  right.  It  must 
be  the  great  profession.  And  it  must  be  mine. 
But  love  me  always.  Let  your  vision  cover 
me  gently  when  I  am  dead,  and  let  my  memory 
lie  in  your  heart  like  a  cradled  child.  Be  happy 
if  you  can  and  your  country  stays  wise.  I 
may  never  see  the  gardens  of  to-morrow,  but 
the  flowers  will  be  sweet.  I  am  young,  Natalie. 
But  so  were  they.  So  were  Lucien  Nassaud, 
Brillaud,  Robert  de  Gency  and  the  millions. 
I  love.  So  did  they.  There  is  no  difference. 
The  trumpet  rings  in  my  ears  as  imperious,  as 
clear,  as  Fate.  It  starts  the  rhythm.  We  must 
carry  it  on.  Adieu,  Beloved.  If  life  has  been 
short,  it  has  held  you  as  a  golden  frame  holds 
the  masterpiece." 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       251 

This  letter  he  folded  neatly  and  placed  it 
with  the  others.  On  the  top  of  the  package  was 
written,  "For  Natalie." 

Then  he  went  to  his  bed  like  a  weary  child 
and  slept  till  morning. 


XIV 

WHEN  Pierre  did  not  come  to  Nat- 
alie for  several  days,  her  heart  was 
heavy  with  nameless  fears.  The 
happy  time  at  Vincennes  still  lingered  with 
her,  but  since  then  Pierre  had  seemed  absent- 
minded,  often  depressed,  and  she  wondered  if 
she  had  failed  him  in  any  of  the  fragile  ways 
that  make  love  relations  so  precarious.  Had  a 
hint  of  her  inner  doubts  escaped  her?  He  loved 
the  Natalie  who  had  carried  him  victoriously 
through  his  own  dangerous  perplexities.  He 
loved  the  woman  who  had  stirred  him  into  ac- 
tion, explaining  the  inexplicable,  giving  fair 
names  to  tragic  deeds,  prophesying  a  regen- 
erated world  to  suit  his  dreams.  But  would 
he  love  a  Natalie  who  esteemed  the  death  of 
men  a  futile  sacrifice?  She  had  fed  him  with 
pretty  fairy  tales,  kept  him  hopeful  when  por- 
tents of  future  wars  darkened  the  horizon, 

252 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       253 

when  the  reckoning  of  capital  and  labor  hung 
fire  in  every  nation,  when  plans  for  armaments, 
always  more  armaments,  found  favor  with  gov- 
ernments, when  young  boys  snatched  from 
their  families  were  to  be  taught  the  dangerous 
game:  all  in  the  name  of  patriotism.  The 
world  was  arming,  and  the  world  chattered  of 
peace.  Where  was  hope  in  such  a  gigantic  in- 
consistency? 

And  there  was  Pierre  dreaming  on  a  vol- 
cano, of  a  tidy  world  built  from  the  ashes  of  a 
consumed  generation.  He  would  always 
dream.  All  issues  were  reduced  to  his  coun- 
try's fate.  She  had  not  the  courage  to  face 
him  with  grim  omens.  Neither  he  nor  she 
would  live  to  see  a  final  peace  built  on  com- 
mon ideals  and  established  interests  of  labor. 
Let  him  dream  therefore  while  he  could,  and 
if  he  could  go  through  his  life  and  finish  it  still 
dreaming,  one  more  soul  would  have  escaped 
from  the  terrifying  consciousness  of  reality. 
But  as  she  looked  back  over  the  past  her  rec- 
ord struck  her  anew  with  dismay.  She  had 


254       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

played  the  role  Pierre  had  given  her.  She  had 
joined  her  voice  to  the  voice  of  romantic  women 
urging  their  men  on  to  useless  heroism.  She 
had  gone  the  easiest  way.  Perhaps  a  voice  or 
two  raised  in  loyal  warning  might  have  reached 
a  few  lost  striving  souls.  Posted  through  the 
generations,  in  the  wilderness  of  popular 
opinion,  have  stood  from  the  beginning  such 
prophets,  geniuses,  and  children  as  their  age 
produced,  ready  to  direct  the  occasional  pil- 
grim, saying:  "We  believe  this  to  be  the  road." 
Who  had  listened  to  them?  They  have  been 
pronounced  too  selfish,  too  wise,  too  simple. 
They  have  pointed  to  a  neglected  byroad,  lead- 
ing away  from  vulgar  market  places  where  the 
trade  is  for  the  strong. 

Natalie  was  neither  a  genius  nor  a  prophet. 
For  Pierre's  sake  she  had  chosen  to  be  silent. 
But  her  silence  had  chinks  through  which  keen 
eyes  might  look  and  find  the  torment  of  an 
inquiring  mind.  She  dreaded  Pierre's  divina- 
tion. His  recent  avoidance  of  her  seemed 
to  prove  a  gathering  distrust.  She  suffered 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       255 

proudly,  refusing  to  call  him  to  her  side  lest 
she  read  in  his  eyes  waning  faith. 

One  day  a  short  letter  came :  "Beloved,  meet 
me  to-morrow  afternoon  at  four  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  by  the  Carroussel.  I  want  to 
see  you  there,  in  the  Gardens  where  we  have 
been  so  happy." 

Then  she  knew  that  all  was  not  well  with 
him,  and  her  love  rose  fiercely  within  her  to 
accomplish  miracles.  Why  had  he  not  come  to 
the  studio?  At  a  word  from  her  Felix  would 
have  left  them  alone. 

It  was  the  end  of  May.  The  little  balcony 
looked  out  upon  a  flowered  garden,  full-bur- 
dened trees  and  soft-backed  roofs.  The  season 
was  rolling  onwards  to  the  tragic  anniversary. 
She  leaned  upon  the  balcony  in  her  old  pose  of 
stilled  longing.  She  watched  the  graceful 
swallows  circling  like  loosened  thoughts  across 
the  sky.  Why  was  not  Pierre  beside  her? 
How  hungrily  she  would  have  drawn  him  to 
her! 


256       CHILDREN    OF   FATE 

Instead  Natalie  went  to  the  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  obeying  Pierre's  call. 

She  went  early,  unable  to  contain  the  un- 
easiness which  increased  as  the  hour  advanced. 
The  afternoon  was  gray  and  confining,  heavy 
in  its  sunless  shadows.  She  wandered  down 
the  long  alleys,  where  little  playing  children 
lit  the  spaces  between  the  trees,  and  fountains 
and  flowers  glinted  in  the  distances.  Old  peo- 
ple and  lovers  sat  upon  benches  and  chairs. 
The  hum  of  life  mingled  with  the  subdued  dis- 
putes of  the  birds.  And,  singly  or  in  groups, 
broken  men  in  uniforms  threaded  their  patient 
way  through  romping  circles,  their  faces  bright- 
ening in  answer  to  the  wide-eyed  admiration  of 
small  worshipers. 

But  Natalie  thought  only  of  one  thing: 
Pierre's  coming.  She  desired  passionately  his 
nearness.  One  glance  at  his  welcoming  eyes 
would  quiet  her  fears.  She  leaned  on  the  ter- 
race and  studied  the  round  clock  set  in  the  Lux- 
embourg, whose  lazy  hands  crawled  through 
the  moments  as  if  time  were  of  no  account. 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       257 

Then  driven  again  by  her  restlessness  she  wan- 
dered back  to  the  meeting  place,  questioning 
the  alleys  with  growing  anguish.  Nearly  four 
o'clock,  and  no  Pierre! 

The  merry-go-round  turned  to  its  cracked 
tune,  carrying  cargo  after  cargo  of  infancy  in 
grotesque  mimicries  of  age.  She  tried  to  fix 
her  attention  on  the  small  beings  circling,  their 
faces  depicting  undeveloped  emotions  of 
pleasure,  bewilderment,  fear.  But  they  only 
heightened  her  unrest.  Once  lifted  on  the 
wooden  beasts,  they  were  strapped  in  place  and 
forced  to  stay  until  the  ride  was  over.  The 
machine,  set  in  motion,  never  paused  until  it 
had  run  its  allotted  course.  If,  in  quest  of 
amusement  or  sensation,  these  mites  experi- 
enced fear,  they  were  obliged  to  cope  with  it, 
while  they  went  round  and  round,  a  spectacle 
for  their  complacent  elders.  Most  of  them  sat 
stupidly,  their  pink  faces  inscrutable,  like  little 
old  men  and  women  undergoing  a  social  rite; 
a  few  smiled  foolishly,  seeking  the  maternal 
eye ;  others  clung  to  the  shiny  pole  upon  which 


258       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

their  mount  was  impaled,  and  with  various  ex- 
pressions of  revolt,  anguish  and  distrust  were 
whirled  to  the  end  of  their  journey.  Natalie 
saw  life  caricatured,  its  endless  contradictions 
mirrored,  in  the  helpless  progeny,  and  turned 
away  to  escape  ironic  comparisons. 

Pierre  was  coming  towards  her.  He  walked 
slowly,  as  if  each  step  were  a  spent  moment, 
never  to  return.  She  hastened  to  him  and  he 
stretched  out  a  hand.  A  familiar  little  smile 
was  moored  to  his  lips. 

"Oh,  Pierre!"  Her  greeting  was  burdened 
with  relief. 

"Beloved!" 

That  was  all.  Their  arms  linked,  they  paced 
up  an  alley,  veering  into  a  side  path  where, 
among  sweet  greens  and  cool  statues,  shelter 
was  offered.  Only  a  few  people  lifted  a  vacant 
glance  at  their  approach.  Natalie  found  noth- 
ing to  say.  She  tuned  in  with  his  silence.  They 
chose  two  chairs,  removed  from  indiscreet  in- 
truders, and  sat  down. 

Then  only  Pierre  said,  "Let  me  look  at  you, 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       259 

Beloved  .  .  .  Yes,  you  are  beautiful."  Meet- 
ing his  eyes  steadily,  she  found  them  weary 
and  mysterious.  The  youth  had  gone  from 
them.  His  face  was  stamped  with  vigils  and 
self -questioning. 

"You've  been  ill?"  shot  from  her. 

"I'm  quite  well,"  he  answered  gently,  still 
staring  at  her,  as  if  to  mark  and  register  each 
feature,  each  line  of  her  body.  "Look  happy, 
Beloved.  I  want  to  see  you  look  happy  once 
more." 

She  managed  an  unconvincing  smile,  urging, 
"Something  has  happened.  Tell  me  what  it 
is." 

But,  without  immediate  response,  his  gaze 
wandered  from  her  to  the  stretch  of  grass  at 
their  feet.  He  seemed  to  be  counting  each 
blade,  fixing  in  his  memory  leafy  vistas  be- 
yond, caressing  the  statues,  noting  intently  a 
patch  of  blue  that  had  broken  through  the 
gray  sky.  His  silence  absorbed  the  tiniest 
manifestations  of  life. 


260       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

"Oh,  what  is  it,  Pierre?"  she  urged  again, 
with  a  sharp  touch  of  fear. 

Then  he  turned  to  her.  "I  join  my  regi- 
ment to-morrow." 

She  sprang  from  her  seat  with  an  incoherent 
cry  as  if  she  had  been  wounded.  He  mo- 
tioned her  back.  "Sit  down,  Beloved.  Be 
quiet  for  my  sake."  She  obeyed  his  note  of 
entreaty. 

"I  chose  to  tell  you  here  in  the  Garden.  If 
your  arms  had  been  around  me  it  would  have 
been  harder.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  a  coward." 

She  was  still  staring  at  him.  Her  voice 
sounded  like  the  frightened  treble  of  a  child. 
"I  don't  understand!" 

"I  must  go,  Natalie.    There  is  no  way  out." 

Then  he  told  her  all  that  had  passed,  all 
that  had  come  to  him.  He  told  her  of  his 
interview  with  his  mother.  "I  said  it  was  not 
you,  Beloved,"  he  ended  on  a  pleading  note. 
"You  mustn't  mind  her.  You  see  I  hoped 
.  .  .  everything  could  be  arranged.  But  it 
was  not  possible.  My  going  makes  her  under- 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       261 

stand  you.  She  believes  me  now  when  I  say 
that  you  give  me  strength  to  do  my  duty.  She 
believes  that  your  love  has  kept  me  steady  and 
that  it  will  again.  .  .  .  Won't  it?"  His  ris- 
ing inflection  was  lost. 

A  deep  silence  fell  between  them  through 
which  Natalie  groped  among  shattered  things, 
striving  to  still  the  tumult  in  her  being.  It 
would  do  no  good  to  scream  or  cry.  The  mo- 
ment must  be  met  and  conquered.  A  crippled 
soldier  passed.  A  child  in  pink  passed,  throw- 
ing and  catching  a  red  ball.  A  young  woman 
carrying  a  book  passed.  Natalie  noted  them 
mechanically.  Life  went  on.  Only  they  two 
had  stopped,  as  if  ordinary  movements  no 
longer  concerned  them. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  she  said,  "You 
are  not  going  back!"  His  accent  of  finality 
had  stunned  her.  She  could  have  fought  at 
once  an  energetic  mood,  but  his  gentleness  was 
more  implacable  than  argument. 

He  began  to  speak  as  he  had  done  once  be- 


262       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

fore  at  the  parting,  when  there  seemed  so  little 
time  to  say  all  that  was  in  his  heart. 

"Beloved,  life  is  not  just  a  question  of  liv- 
ing and  loving.  We  know  that.  We  have 
gone  through  this  before.  There  is  one  thing 
you  must  believe :  I  am  strong  now,  and  your 
gift  of  faith  is  my  talisman  .  .  .  not  easily 
lost.  I  could  not  see  you,  dear,  before  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  what  I  must  do.  You  would 
have  thought  me  a  weakling,  if  I  had  come  cry- 
ing for  help  at  such  a  time.  Now  you  can  be 
proud  of  me.  This  is  my  duty  .  .  ." 

"Your  duty?"  escaped  from  her. 

"Yes,  Natalie!"  His  face  grew  animated 
as  he  went  on.  The  old  fires  burned  in  his 
eyes.  "The  world  must  be  delivered.  France 
must  be  delivered — and  do  I  not  belong  to 
the  world  and  to  France?  The  value  of  a 
man  to-day  lies  in  his  endurance  less  than  in 
his  brain.  I  can  endure  with  the  others.  Nat- 
alie, look  at  me.  Am  I  not  strong?  What 
are  my  dreams  worth?  They  cannot  defeat 
an  enemy.  They  cannot  save  a  life.  My 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       263 

« 

talent  is  for  building,  but  I  am  like  a  man  who 

tries  to  build  a  beautiful  cathedral  on  a  land 
that  is  littered  with  wreckage.  How  can  I 
build  .  .  .  and  where?  So  there  is  nothing  for 
me  to  do  but  to  go  out  with  the  other  men  and 
clear  up  the  land."  He  smiled  wanly.  "Be- 
loved, you  are  wiser  than  I.  You  will  inherit 
my  dreams.  You  will  see  that  they  are  ful- 
filled. I  have  stood  aside  from  men,  as  dream- 
ers do,  loving  them  in  my  fashion.  But  they 
are  sociable  animals,  even  in  war.  They  die 
together.  That  is  rather  fine,  isn't  it?" 

"It  would  be  better  if  they  lived  together!" 
she  interrupted  quickly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  can't  .  .  .  now. 
But  it  will  come.  I  must  think  that.  Ah,  if 
they  could  only  live  as  they  die — one  heart, 
one  mind,  one  body  on  the  battlefield  in  superb 
obedience  to  fate — what  union  there  could  be 
on  earth!"  He  paused  as  if  the  thought  had 
mastered  him,  inviting  Natalie  mutely  to  join 
him  in  his  dream.  But  she  stayed  still  and 
limp. 


264       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

Pierre  touched  her  with  his  hand.  "Natalie, 
are  you  not  content?" 

"You  must  not  go,"  she  said  as  if  it  were 
a  lesson. 

He  argued  like  a  little  child,  drawing  closer 
to  her.  "But  why?" 

With  an  effort  she  answered,  "You've  been 
wounded  once.  That's  enough." 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said  sadly.  "But  it  is 
not  enough." 

"They  will  need  you  .  .  .  after  the  war." 

"When  will  that  be?" 

"You're  not  well  yet." 

He  lifted  his  arm.    "I  can  hold  a  gun." 

"You're  not  strong,"  she  insisted.  Her 
throat  had  tightened.  She  struggled  to  pro- 
nounce words  distinctly. 

"You  make  it  hard,  Beloved." 

"I  need  you  here." 

A  fragrance  of  flowers  drifted  across  their 
path,  fanned  by  the  air,  and  floated  by  in- 
tangibly. They  were  caught  in  a  spectrum  of 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       265 

sweetness  mingling  their  breath  and  eyes.  And 
so  they  sat  through  an  instant  of  yearning. 

Then,  "You  need  me?"  he  whispered.  His 
eyes  were  suddenly  moist. 

She  nodded.  "I  have  grown  to  need  you, 
Pierre.  Can  you  read  a  woman's  heart?  Can 
you  measure  her  desire?"  She  could  not  bear 
to  look  at  his  eyes.  The  secret  she  carried 
rankled  in  her  heart,  embittering  her  voice. 
"You've  done  this  because  of  your  family, 
haven't  you?" 

"No." 

"They  don't  want  me,"  she  went  on  in  ris- 
ing passion.  "Of  course  they  wouldn't.  But 
need  they  send  you  away  on  account  of  it? 
I'd  rather  give  you  up,"  she  said  wildly.  Al- 
ready she  felt  the  space  widening  between 
them.  His  image  grew  fainter  as  if  he  were 
being  carried  away  on  a  resistless  tide.  She 
cried  out  at  the  pain  in  his  face.  "No,  Pierre! 
Forgive  me!" 

He  said  rapidly.  "It  isn't  my  family  .  .  . 
it  isn't.  They  have  voiced  what  is  in  us  all 


266       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

to-day.  And  I  have  heard  your  voice  with 
theirs.  Can  you  deny  it?  Beloved,  I  will 
open  my  heart  to  you.  You  shall  look  deep 
as  you  did  that  day.  Then  you  will  say  again, 
'You  are  justified.'  Listen!  .  .  .  I  don't  want 
to  kill  any  more  to-day  than  I  did  yesterday. 
The  thought  is  horrible  to  me.  .  .  .  You  say 
I  am  not  strong.  My  body  is  well.  Only  my 
spirit  is  sick.  But  you  can  cure  me  ..." 

"Again?" 

"Again  .  .  .  always!  I  have  questioned 
once  more.  You  see  I  hide  nothing  from  you. 
I  have  tried  once  more  to  understand  the  out- 
come of  this  great  sacrifice,  before  ...  I  go. 
I  find  you  everywhere  in  the  answer.  I  see 
you  pointing  ahead." 

"Ahead?"  she  echoed  drearily. 

He  looked  troubled.  "I  don't  understand 
you,  Beloved.  I  counted  on  your  magnificent 
faith.  You  have  thought  as  I  do  that  the  duel 
is  between  good  and  evil.  Why  has  the  world 
come  suddenly  upon  this  crisis,  if  it  were  not 
necessary  to  the  world's  development?"  He 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       267 

looked  at  her  with  the  mystic  expectancy  she 
recognized.  "I  am  a  thinking  atom  attached 
to  the  mass,  associating  myself  with  the  deeds 
of  men,  because  man  represents  life  and  I  am 
man.  Is  not  that  enough?  When  we  have 
driven  out  the  enemy  we  may  think  of  build- 
ing .  .  .  not  before." 

"Those  who  are  left  to  think!"  slipped  from 
her.  Other  words  trembled  on  the  verge  of 
utterance.  She  held  them  back.  She  was 
afraid  now  of  what  she  might  say. 

"There  will  always  be  men  left,"  cried 
Pierre,  "while  there  are  women  such  as  you 
to  bear  them!  And  the  glory  of  dying  for  a 
cause  is  more  than  life."  But  his  voice  missed 
the  triumphant  ring  of  conviction. 

She  stared  at  him  a  moment  and  then  said 
slowly:  "You  will  go?  Nothing  can  stop 
you?" 

"Don't  you  see,  it's  the  only  way?"  was  his 
answer. 

Then  something  rose  up  in  her  that  was 
like  rage.  The  wasted  youth  of  nations,  the 


268       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

force  that  drove  them  to  destruction,  her  own 
helplessness,  and  the  idea  that  Pierre  again 
without  hate  in  his  heart  was  adding  his  life 
to  the  others,  goaded  her  beyond  control.  He 
should  go  then,  but  not  like  the  rest,  stuffed 
with  illusions  and  catchwords  of  honor  and 
glory.  He  should  go  knowing  the  price,  judg- 
ing for  himself  the  worth  of  death  as  she  had 
measured  it.  The  lie  within  her  burst  its 
bounds,  but  as  she  started  to  speak  she  saw 
by  his  altered  face  that  she  was  about  to  deal 
a  mortal  blow. 

"You  are  weak,"  she  said.  "You  know  deep 
in  your  heart  that  you  go  because  you  are 
afraid  not  to  go.  You  were  never  meant  to 
hold  a  gun.  You  know  that  this  nonsense 
about  saving  civilization  is  the  supreme  lie  of 
an  uncivilized  world.  For  there  is  no  civiliza- 
tion to  save:  there  are  the  brains  which  might 
have  made  it  a  reality  served  up  as  targets. 
War  is  not  waged  for  sentiment.  You  may 
think  it  is.  Frenchmen  may  think  it  is.  The 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       269 

sentimentalists  are  always  the  easiest  victims. 
It  has  been  so  this  time." 

"Natalie  .  .  ."  he  gasped. 

She  held  him  with  her  eyes,  watching  the 
searing  words  mark  him  indelibly.  "Let  us 
for  once  face  such  truth  as  there  is !  Who  am 
I  to  know  the  truth?  I  can  only  voice  what 
has  grown  within  me,  planted  by  the  first  and 
last  lie  I  shall  ever  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Natalie!" 

She  continued.  "I  told  you  that  you  were 
justified.  I  did  not  think  so.  For  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  any  man  of  any  nation  is  justified. 
If  their  madness  left  them,  if  by  a  miracle  the 
killing  stopped  to-day  .  .  .  with  no  results  to 
show  and  the  map  unchanged  .  .  .  few  men 
would  feel  proud  of  the  part  they  played,  and 
those  who  did  feel  proud,  I  tell  you,  are  far- 
ther from  civilization  and  Christianity  than  the 
men  of  the  Stone  Ages.  For  these  modern 
men  have  pretended  to  belong  to  progress. 
.  .  .  Remember  I  don't  count.  My  thought 
is  an  outcast.  I  cannot  change  human  nature, 


270       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

though  I  uncover  it.  Now  this  is  what  I  ... 
one  woman  .  .  .  believe:  that  those  women, 
who  in  Germany,  England,  France,  Russia, 
America  and  all  the  other  nations  gave  their 
voice  freely  to  this  or  any  war,  unconsciously 
abetting  schemes  of  governments  and  capi- 
talists, are  fools  and  criminals.  They  should 
have  foreseen  results.  Men  are  ruled  mainly 
by  their  primal  instincts.  But  they,  the  women, 
should  have  known  that  if  races  are  to  evolve 
into  a  higher  state  it  must  be  through  finer, 
cleverer  methods  than  war.  Yes,  I  said  clever ! 
War  is  a  stupid  return  for  education.  And  I, 
Natalie,  fell  into  the  sin  of  other  women.  I 
sent  you  off  with  lies,  lies,  lies  to  suit  your  uni- 
form. I  will  not  send  you  the  second  time !" 

Pierre  stared  at  her.  But  nothing  now  could 
stop  her. 

"The  lust  of  conquest  began  with  your 
enemy.  Yet  blind  fools  cooped  in  the  trenches 
repeat  like  parrots  the  words  given  them,  'We 
didn't  want  war.  It  isn't  our  fault.'  And  you, 
their  enemy,  are  saying  the  same  words.  You 


didn't  want  war  either.  It  isn't  your  fault. 
Then  in  God's  name  whose  fault  is  it?  Who 
wanted  war?  Yet  there  is  war,  and  war  breeds 
war.  When  your  country  is  freed,  don't  for- 
get, Pierre,  it  will  only  be  one  among  many. 
And  it  will  have  to  face  larger  issues  than  at- 
tacked land.  It  will  have  to  face  death  and 
debt.  You  hope  for  indemnities.  Can  a  ques- 
tionable sum  cover  the  incalculable  disaster? 
Will  that  indemnity  be  paid  to  the  government 
or  to  the  people  ?  Will  it  be  invested  in  other 
armies?  Ah,  Pierre,  where  will  the  builders 
and  the  artisans  and  the  men  of  brains  be 
then?  The  schemers  will  be  left.  They  are 
prudent.  But  when  maimed  men  take  off  their 
uniforms  they  will  become  so  many  useless 
factors  of  society.  You  can't  set  them  all  to 
weaving  rugs  and  tuning  pianos.  You,  who 
fight,  believe  that  with  Prussia  crushed  you 
will  have  no  other  menace  to  contend  with. 
You  hope  that  by  ruining  one  country  you 
can  go  back  to  your  homes  in  peace.  But  if 
Germany  is  crippled  for  a  space  of  time  which 


272       CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

will  not  count  in  the  world's  future  history, 
she  is  simply  one  rival  temporarily  out  of  the 
field.  Oh,  Pierre,  evil  cannot  die.  It  is  part 
of  us.  Yoii  would  have  to  suppress  humanity 
to  rid  us  of  evil.  Pierre,  your  death  will  not 
affect  the  world." 

She  heard  him  give  a  little  sound  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  breathe,  but  she  swept  on. 

"Defend  your  country  if  you  will,  because 
it  is  attacked!  But  don't  believe  that  natural 
instinct  of  yours  which  is  primitive  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  great  humanitarian  crusades. 
Those  are  bloodless.  We  have  yet  to  see  them. 
You  deal  with  local  danger.  That  is  all.  The 
peoples  to-day  are  fighting  to  enrich  further 
capitalists  and  munition  makers.  That's  what 
it  comes  to.  They  are  your  real  enemies.  But 
you  do  not  attack  them.  They  are  the  disease 
of  so-called  civilization.  And  they  prosper." 
She  laughed  mirthlessly.  "Pacific  countries 
are  coining  fortunes  selling  shells  to  whoever 
will  buy.  Do  you  suppose  they  sell  such  death 
because  they  believe  in  honor,  glory,  patri- 


CHILDREN    OF   FATE       273 

otism?  Do  you  suppose  the  manufacturers 
have  the  interests  of  humanity  at  heart?  Oh, 
my  dear,  they  are  quite  right  to  trade  on  human 
folly.  But  finding  such  advantage  in  it,  pres- 
ently they  will  be  urging  their  own  people  to 
find  an  enemy  and  turn  their  munition  fac- 
tories into  home  industries.  Internationalism 
exists.  Do  you  know  where?  Among  bank- 
ers and  politicians.  They  are  the  ones  who 
with  paid  scientists  are  forging  a  huge  syndi- 
cate to  wield  the  world  and  bleed  it  dry.  You 
die  to  satisfy  them,  Pierre.  Is  it  worth  while?" 

"Natalie  .  .  .  stop,"  he  whispered.  "What 
are  you  saying?" 

"Saying  what  I,  one  woman,  believe.  And 
I'll  tell  you  more.  Internationalism  is  a  rem- 
edy. But  it  will  only  come  through  free  min- 
gling of  the  races,  interbreeding,  cooperative 
industries  and  disarmament.  It  won't  come 
with  excessive  taxes  and  wars.  It  won't  come 
while  governments  deal  in  secret  treaties  and 
trickery.  It  won't  come  while  men  are  will- 
ing to  die  when  they  are  told  to." 


274       CHILDREN   OF    FATE 

"You  are  killing  me,"  she  heard  him  say. 

"Pierre,  my  own  Pierre,  is  it  not  better  than 
lying  to  you?  I  have  told  you  long  enough 
what  you  wanted  to  hear.  Now  you  must 
listen  to  me,  the  Natalie  you  have  never 
known." 

Pierre  rose  and  stood  before  her  swaying, 
his  white  face  and  tragic  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
"It's  too  late."  Then  the  wail  mounted  that 
was  to  haunt  her  forever  after.  "But,  oh,  Be- 
loved, why  did  you  tell  me  these  terrible 
things?" 

She  rose  also  and  faced  him,  as  if  the  su- 
preme moment  of  parting  had  come.  A  bur- 
den had  gone  from  her  heart.  She  felt  emptied 
of  life  and  love.  "I  had  to."  An  immense 
weariness  weighed  down  her  body.  She  was 
old. 

"There  is  nothing  more  then?"  he  murmured. 

"Nothing."  Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  grass 
which  in  the  thickening  twilight  had  turned 
to  an  opaque  mass  of  dull  green.  The  trees 
threw  shadows  across  their  path. 


CHILDREN   OF   FATE       275 

"Well,  well,  it's  all  over,"  she  said  as  if  she 
were  speaking  to  herself.  "You'll  have  to  go 
then.  My  love  can't  save  you.  .  .  .  The  world 
will  have  to  learn,"  she  added  in  a  dazed  voice. 

"All  this  time  I  thought  .  .  ."  he  muttered. 
"All  this  time  I  thought.  .  .  .  Well,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  ahout  it." 

"Nothing." 

Their  eyes  met  in  fathomless  yearning. 

"I  can't  mend  the  world,"  she  said. 

"No  one  can.  .  .  .  Oh,  Natalie!"  the  cry 
broke  out  and  touched  her.  The  clock  struck 
an  hour.  They  counted  the  final  notes. 

"I  must  go  now,"  he  said  pitifully  as  if  he 
were  waking  from  a  dream.  "I  must  go." 

"Yes  ...  go  quickly.  Kiss  me,  Pierre 
.  .  .  kiss  me." 

He  kissed  her.  Those  who  passed  and  saw 
the  parting  smiled  affectionately  upon  this  idyl 
between  a  soldier  and  a  girl. 

"Adieu!" 

"Adieu." 

One  more  look  that  linked  and  parted  them 


276      CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

forever  and  he  was  gone,  a  bright  spot  among 
the  trees,  vanishing  far  down  an  alley. 

She  sank  into  the  chair  staring  vacantly 
ahead  of  her.  Then  her  loss  struck  her.  A 
cold  pain  entered  her  heart  like  steel.  Driven 
by  it  she  ran  down  the  alley  after  him. 

"Pierre,  I  lied !  .  .  .  Pierre,  nothing  is  true ! 
.  .  .  Pierre,  you  are  justified!"  she  tried  to 
call.  But  he  had  gone  his  way.  And  she  was 
left  alone  in  the  darkening  garden  to  find  her 
way  through  the  gates.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  done.  She  had  spoken. 


XV 

OLD  Jean  Bourdon  and  the  women 
dressed  in  black  sat  at  the  round  table 
eating.  They  ate  like  machines  open- 
ing and  shutting  their  mouths.  And  in  the  big 
dining  room  where  the  furniture  seemed  to 
have  sprouted  from  the  floor  in  massive  fa- 
miliar shapes,  these  women  of  several  genera- 
tions fitted  into  the  space  like  plants  that  have 
grown  in  the  same  climate  for  years.  The  air 
was  charged  with  the  heat  of  midday. 

Jean  Bourdon  said  once,  "A  year  ago  we 
were  all  here."  His  dulled  eyes  rested  on 
three  vacant  chairs. 

"Henri  may  be  back  on  leave  in  a  few 
months,"  murmured  Madame  Bourdon.  Her 
rigid  face  had  forgotten  how  to  smile.  She 
spoke  without  interest. 

"Henri  .  .  .  yes." 

277 


278      CHILDREN    OF    FATE 

Louise  Bourdon  looked  up  with  a  spark  of 
animation.  "He  hasn't  written  lately." 

Madame  Bourdon  said  with  an  effort, 
"Not  since  Pierre's  death,"  and  lowered  her 
face. 

Grandmother  Bourdon  wagged  her  head 
and  cackled,  "Pierre  is  a  brave  boy  ...  a 
good  soldier."  She  peered  around  the  table 
with  misty  eyes.  Her  palsied  hand  reached  out 
for  the  bread. 

"He  died  as  a  Frenchman  should,"  Jean 
Bourdon  remarked  heavily,  and  pushed  his 
plate  away  as  if  he  would  never  eat  again. 

"He  did  his  duty,"  his  mother  said. 

Then  Lorraine  rose  passionately.  "I  can't 
bear  it  ...  I  can't  bear  it!"  she  sobbed  and 
swayed  out  of  the  room. 

"Poor  Lorraine!"  sighed  Germaine. 

And  they  sat  on,  opening  and  shutting  their 
mouths,  avoiding  one  another's  eyes.  The 
room  was  weighted  with  memories  of  vanished 
youth. 


CHILDREN   OF    FATE       279 

Natalie,  in  black,  stood  on  the  little  balcony, 
holding  the  letters  Pierre  had  left  for  her.  She 
stood  there  without  moving. 

The  roofs  were  very  old.  They  seemed  to 
have  lived  a  long  while  and  grown  wise  and 
mellow.  Their  quaint  pattern  was  a  seal 
of  the  city  set  in  the  sky.  Far  away  on  its 
peak  the  Sacre-Coeur  hovered  like  a  cloud. 
The  bells  of  Saint-Germain  were  ringing. 
They  rang  as  if  they  would  never  stop,  as  if 
their  voice  must  reach  the  ends  of  the  earth 
awakening  sleepers.  They  told  men  there  was 
no  way  of  escaping  Fate.  They  told  women 
there  was  no  use  in  weeping.  The  life  of  the 
city,  hidden  among  the  roofs,  drifted  upwards, 
a  medley  of  interwoven  discords.  And  below 
in  the  shadowless  old  courtyard  a  little  boy 
was  playing  at  war.  He  was  a  brave  General 
at  the  head  of  his  troops.  The  courtyard  was 
peopled  with  enemies.  Battles  were  rag- 
ing. .  .  . 

These  words  of  Pierre's  came  to  Natalie: 
"I  don't  want  to  kill.  I  don't  want  to  throw 


280       CHILDREN   OF   FATE 

away  any  of  the  gifts  civilization  has  given  to 
me,  unless  in  offering  my  life  I  am  benefiting 
future  humanity.  If  I  had  been  let  alone,  I 
would  have  created,  built,  justified  my  place 
in  a  constructive  society.  Or  else  I  should 
have  been  a  soldier  from  the  beginning  .  .  . 
an  automaton  with  a  gun." 

He  had  said,  "There  must  be  a  deep  sig- 
nificance in  our  sacrifice.  .  .  .  What  am  I? 
My  bayonet  is  a  blade  of  grass,  my  mind  a 
seed  in  the  field.  But  if  by  adding  my  life 
to  the  millions  I  can  assist  a  natural  terrific 
manifestation  of  good,  I  must  consider  myself 
enrolled  in  an  eternal  cause  .  .  ." 

Then  she  read  again  his  last  words.  "Let 
your  vision  cover  me  gently  when  I  am  dead, 
and  let  my  memory  lie  in  your  heart  like  a 
cradled  child.  Be  happy  if  you  can  and  your 
country  stays  wise.  .  .  .  The  trumpet  rings  in 
my  ears  as  imperious,  as  clear,  as  Fate.  It 
starts  the  rhythm.  We  must  carry  it  on. 
Adieu,  Beloved  .  .  ." 

He  had  gone  the  way  of  the  youthful  mil- 


CHILDREN    OF    FATE       281 

lions  and  the  world  was  none  the  better  for 
it.  And  she  was  alone  with  a  grave  in  her 
heart. 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  city. 

But  the  city  could  not  give  her  what  it  had 
taken,  nor  could  men  undo  what  they  had  done. 


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